She had taken this deeply to heart; no doubt she had brooded upon it in her own vague childish fashion, and had puzzled her little brain as to what she could possibly have done to displease her father so greatly that he had actually gone away never to return.
Whatever her thoughts were, she did not on this occasion give vent to them by tears or words.

She only turned her eyes on Ferrari with a look of intense pride and scorn, strange to see in so little a creature--a true Romani look, such as I had often noticed in my father's eyes, and such as I knew must be frequently visible in my own.

Ferrari saw it, and burst out laughing loudly.
"There!" he exclaimed.

"Like that she exactly resembles her father! It is positively ludicrous! Fabio, all over! She only wants one thing to make the portrait perfect." And approaching her, he snatched one of her long curls and endeavored to twist it over her mouth in the form of a mustache.

The child struggled angrily, and hid her face against my coat.