" "So she was," replied the woollen-draper, helping himself to an enormous pinch of snuff with the air of a man who does not dislike to be rallied about his gallantry,—"so she was. My son went down after his death. And behind— there was Paris, memories of amazing things, memories which made his cheeks burn and his heart beat quickly as he sat there waiting for her. Get nothing out of me. You are French?" "No. Just sit down on that stool again and let’s talk of this in cold blood. Miching Mallecho. ’ Dieu du ciel, but she was a fool. I'm an old hand at such things.
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