She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. I don’t suppose a girl can tell if a man is in love with her or not in love with her. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. She crawled over and caught at the skirts of this white woman who understood. He classified her as he seated himself. Celeste introduced him to me—oh, how Celeste hated me! She must have known. Then he took me out to Monteaux, on a motor. Marvel, who proceeded to the cart, and took his seat upon the coffin.
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