His mother scowled and said sternly,
`Marek!' then spoke rapidly to Krajiek in Bohemian.
`She wants me to tell you he won't hurt nobody, Mrs. Burden. He was born
like that. The others are smart. Ambrosch, he make good farmer.' He
struck Ambrosch on the back, and the boy smiled knowingly.
At that moment the father came out of the hole in the bank. He wore no
hat, and his thick, iron-grey hair was brushed straight back from his
forehead. It was so long that it bushed out behind his ears, and made him
look like the old portraits I remembered in Virginia. He was tall and
slender, and his thin shoulders stooped. He looked at us understandingly,
then took grandmother's hand and bent over it. I noticed how white and
well-shaped his own hands were. They looked calm, somehow, and skilled.
His eyes were melancholy, and were set back deep under his brow. His face
was ruggedly formed, but it looked like ashes--like something from which
all the warmth and light had died out. Everything about this old man was
in keeping with his dignified manner. He was neatly dressed. Under his
coat he wore a knitted grey vest, and, instead of a collar, a silk scarf of
a dark bronze-green, carefully crossed and held together by a red coral
pin. While Krajiek was translating for Mr.
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