“Who CAN this young girl be, then?”
“Bless me! I don’t know. What sort of a looking person is she?”
“Very tall; a brunette.”
“How old is she?”
“Eighteen or nineteen.”
The woman made a rapid calculation on her fingers. “Nine and four are thirteen,” she muttered, “and five are eighteen. Ah, ha!—why not? I must look into this.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing; a little reflection I was making to myself. Do you know this young lady’s name?”
“It’s Marguerite.”
The woman’s face clouded. “No; it can’t be then,” she muttered, in a scarcely audible voice.