Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. You are not ‘Alcide. On a bench at the foot of the trees, with a pipe in his mouth, and a tankard by his side, sat the worthy carpenter, looking the picture of good-heartedness and benevolence. His brain reeled. She walked over to them still carrying the trousers in her hands, and stooped to examine them. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe.
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