Whoever has a secret is
stronger than they who know nothing. Fanny thought: "My companions, to
be as you are is not to exist! Whatever you feel, you are feeling
nothing ...")
"Will you?"
"Yes," she answered, and joined her hands tightly, for this was where
the play really began.
* * * * *
The sun shone gaily. Here was no mud, no unhappiness, here were no
puzzled women, and touching mayors of ruined villages, but instead gay
goblin houses, pointed churches like sugar cake, the old French theatre
with its stone garlands glittering in the sun; sun everywhere, streaming
over the Place du Theatre, over women shaking coloured rags from the
windows, women washing linen by the river; everything that had been wet
was drying, everything that had savoured of tears and age and sadness
was burning up under the sun, and what moisture remained was brighter
than jewels.
"Suppose he never came!"
"Why, then, be ready for that. Very likely he wouldn't come. Very likely
he would think in daylight--' She is not a woman, but an English
Amazon...'" Fanny glanced down at her clothes regretfully. She was
ill-equipped for an assignation.
"At least I might have better gloves," she thought, and walked into a
small shop which advertised men's clothes in German across the window.
She bought yellow washing-leather gloves at twenty-eight francs a pair,
and would have paid a hundred had the salesman insisted.
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