CHAPTER XXVII
THE PEOPLE'S WAR
Bettina's head was shaven like a boy's, and she held out to Marianne her golden hair, long, heavy and in thick waves.
As for Marianne, herself, she was laying on a table in the room in which the two stood, all her books, her beloved Goethe, Schiller, all of them, her laces and the jewels which had been given her since her childhood.
"How nice it is, dear Bettina," she said, "to have you again with us, now that after all these dreadful years, we are again in Berlin."
Bettina's face glowed.
"Yes, dear Mademoiselle——"
Marianne lifted her hand.
"No French, Bettina, German."