"It is," said Fouchette, with a desperate swallow,—"Podvin."
"Po-Podvin?"
"Yes, ma'm'selle."
"Person you live with?"
Fouchette nodded,—she had her mouth full.
"They beat you?"
"Most every day."
"Why?"
"Er—exercise, mostly, I think."
The half-sly, half-humorous squint of the left blue eye set the sympathetic young woman laughing in spite of herself. The remarkable precocity of these petites misérables of the slums was new to her.