"Positively there is no chair down here to offer you," she continued.
"But if you prefer your own thoughts to my chatter, I will sit down on
the bottom step here and keep silent."
Miss Haldin hastened to assure her that, on the contrary, she was very
much interested in the story of the journeyman lithographer. He was a
revolutionist, of course.
"A martyr, a simple man," said the _dame de compangnie_, with a faint
sigh, and gazing through the open front door dreamily. She turned her
misty brown eyes on Miss Haldin.
"I lived with him for four months. It was like a nightmare."
As Miss Haldin looked at her inquisitively she began to describe the
emaciated face of the man, his fleshless limbs, his destitution.
The room into which the apple-woman had led her was a tiny garret, a
miserable den under the roof of a sordid house. The plaster fallen off
the walls covered the floor, and when the door was opened a horrible
tapestry of black cobwebs waved in the draught. He had been liberated a
few days before--flung out of prison into the streets. And Miss Haldin
seemed to see for the first time, a name and a face upon the body of
that suffering people whose hard fate had been the subject of so many
conversations, between her and her brother, in the garden of their
country house.
Pages:
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201