“That queer Dutch boy—that foreigner? Nobody minds what foreigners say.”
“Still, it is nice sometimes, by somebody, to be called even fairly good-looking,” I responded.
“Maybe you’re in Dutch style,” said Hannah. “I always was told they had flattened-out faces, same as the Dutch dolls, you know.”
This remark was scarcely flattering; but then Hannah, on principle, never did flatter.
“Tell me about mother,” I said. “What was she really like?”
“Mr Alex takes after her. Eyes blue as the sky, a tender, gentle face, rather tall, rather slim, the sweetest of voices.”
“Why did she die?” I asked.
My own voice trembled.
“Killed, child—killed.”
“Killed?” I exclaimed. “I never heard that.”