The narrow streets near the Halles may not smell as strong as St. Helen's, nor as loud as Widnes, but their perfume is more subtle, and like the famous patent pill of England it goes further.
When the hot season begins, people who regularly live thereabouts need no nutriment.
They live on the atmosphere—or die on it. And the state of the latter is the more happy.
Then the drapers' shops.
How is it that in the years that were earlier, I saw only fêtes and picnics? whilst now, when I accompany my Bosom's Lord on her periodical invasions of France—
Ah! yes, perhaps that accounts for it.
I accompany Madame to the Printemps, the Belle Jardinière, the Louvre, and the Bon Marché, to interpret her commands, and I climb everlasting staircases like a little white mouse in a wheel.
How I perspire—dame! how I perspire!