“But here is your Master,” she objected, pointing to me, and entrenching herself behind my authority.
“Yes, but you are our lady.”
Instead of rejoicing in this, at last I became offended.
“Speak to them,” she advised me. “Are you not their master?”
“I do not know them,” I answered.
“Exactly, but you will know them.”
“They bore me,” I replied.
“Give them a little friendship, and they will cease to weary you.”
“I don’t find it easy,” I said.
“There is poor Fannette, the washerwoman: her hands are covered with cracks and chilblains. Then there is Pierre, the deaf man, who works in our garden.”