This last variation of expression was what now suddenly
came into her eyes as she said, scrutinising me from head to foot:
'Reia, you make a good git-up for a Romany-chal. Can you rokkra
Romanes? No, I see you can't. I should ha' took you for the right
sort. I should ha' begun the Romany rokkerpen with you, only you
ain't got the Romany glime in your eyes. It's a pity he ain't got the
Romany glime, ain't it, Jim?'
She turned to a young Gypsy fellow who was sitting at the other end
of the settle, drinking also from a pot of ale, and smoking a cutty
pipe.
'Don't ax me about no mumply Gorgio's eyes,' muttered the man,
striking the leather legging of his right leg with a silver-headed
whip he carried. 'You're allus a-takin' intrust in the Gorgios, and
yet you're allus a-makin' believe as you hate 'em.'
'You say Winifred Wynne is back again?' I cried in an eager voice.
'That's jist what I _did_ say, and I ain't deaf, my rei. How she
managed to get back here puzzles me, poor thing, for she's jist for
all the world like Rhona's daddy's daddy, Opi Bozzell, what buried
his wits in his dead wife's coffin.
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