Part 7 That was two days before Christmas Eve. Beautiful sculptures of sugar and almond paste decorated the long tables, delicate replicas of flowers and miniature animals, even a small Palazzo sculpted from cakes graced the table. The father, granite; the daughter, fire: Spurlock saw the one and heard the other, his amazement indescribable. "Mother!" she echoed,—"mother! why do you call me by that name?" "Because you are my mother. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. "But be prudent, my angel. “We’ll go to a place where we can have a private room,” he said.
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