I now began to read and study as well as paint. But so absorbed was I
in my struggle with Fenella Stanley and Romany superstitions, that
the only subject which could distract me from memory was that of
hereditary influence--prepotency of transmission in relation to
races. Though Sinfi could neither read nor write, she loved to sit by
my side and, caressing Pharaoh, to watch me as I read or wrote. To
her there evidently seemed something mysterious and uncanny in
writing, something like 'penning dukkering.' It seemed to her, I
think, a much more remarkable accomplishment than that of painting.
And as to reading, I am not sure that the satirical Videy was
entirely wrong in saying that Sinfi believed that books 'could talk
jis' like men and women.' Not a word would she speak, save when she
now and then bent down her head to whisper to Pharaoh when that
little warrior was inclined to give a disturbing chuckle, or to shake
his wattles. And when at last she and Pharaoh got wearied by the
prolonged silence, she would begin to murmur in a tone of playful
satire to the restless bird, 'Mum, mum, Pharaoh.
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