"Bon soi', Miché." [Monsieur.] A rather hard, yet not repellent smile showed her faultless teeth.
Frowenfeld bowed.
"Mo vien c'erc'er la bourse de Madame."
She spoke the best French at her command, but it was not understood.
The apothecary could only shake his head.
"La bourse" she repeated, softly smiling, but with a scintillation of the eyes in resentment of his scrutiny. "La bourse" she reiterated.
"Purse?"
"Oui, Miché."
"You are sent for it?"
"Oui, Miché."