You were with your mother, the two of you huddled like thieves, laughing at the silly women who tried to shield themselves from rain by cowering under empty baskets and shawls. At first she thought that the woman was just a servant. A child—as innocent as a child! Nothing about life; bemused by the fairy stories you writers call novels! I don't know what you have done; I don't care. Arrived in Paris she remembered that she had not the money for a fiacre. ’ Gerald knew the caress in his voice was a trifle ironic. The agony on the sands now ceased to puzzle her. “You are very stupid, Anna,” she said.
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