She looked, Dorothée said, just as she always looks. Then they would leave and she would go back to being alone. The girl wished that she had come afoot, despite the knowledge that she would have suffered many inconveniences, accidental and intentional jostling, insolence and ribald jest. He was a philosopher. She was alone, and the mask of her unchanging high spirits was for the moment laid aside. Evidently in the flower of his age, he was scarcely less remarkable for symmetry of person than for comeliness of feature; and, though his attire was plain and unpretending, it was such as could be worn only by one belonging to the higher ranks of society. Then he turned with a fierce movement to take her into his arms. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. They smelled good, but they no longer smelled like food.
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