’ She jumped up, and moved impatiently to the door. ‘Dare I suppose that to be of her making?’ Gerald flushed. Clotilde flew into a rage, crying, “How dare you lay claim to my children! I am their mother! This is a Godless house!” She accused. “Your mother was a Gypsy. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. These fellows must be right,” he added thoughtfully, “and yet—there’s a mystery somewhere. “If ever you do and I can help you in any way, by advice or inquiry or recommendation—You see, I’m no believer in feminine incapacity, but I do perceive there is such a thing as feminine inexperience.
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