“I live near you.”
“But you mustn't come. The concierge is a tigress.... Etienne calls her Mme. Clemenceau.”
“Who? The saint?”
“No, you silly—my brother. He is a socialist. He's a typesetter at l'Humanite.”
“Really? I often read l'Humanite.”
“Poor boy, he used to swear he'd never go in the army. He thought of going to America.”
“That wouldn't do him any good now,” said Andrews bitterly. “What do you do?”
“I?” a gruff bitterness came into her voice. “Why should I tell you? I work at a dressmaker's.”
“Like Louise?”
“You've heard Louise? Oh, how I cried.”