* * * * *
"What is she like … Violette?"
"Fair."
After several low questions she seemed to stand between them like a child, thin and fair, delicate and silent, innocently expecting to be spared all pain.
"No, she doesn't go out very much. She stays indoors and does her hair, and her nails, and reads a little book."
"And have you known her for a long time?"
"A long time…."
After this they pretended that she did not exist, and the little wraith floated back to Paris from which she had come, suddenly, on days when she had written him certain letters which had brought tears into his eyes.