“Frank,” said his partner, with sudden authority, “you take the kid down to the water and scrub him.”
“All over?” whispered Puttany, in confusion.
“No—just his hands and top. Supper is ready to put on.”
The docile mother heard her child yelling and blubbering under generous douches while nurse's duty was performed by one of her entertainers, and she smiled in proof that her faith was grounded on their righteousness. She was indeed a mere girl. Her short scarlet upper lip showed her teeth with piquant innocence. As much a creature of the woods as a doe, her lot had been that primitive struggle which knows nothing about the amenities and proprieties of civilization. This Brown could clearly see, and he addressed her with the same protecting patronage he would have used with the child.
“What's your kid's name?”
“Grégoire, but he call himself Gougou. Me, I am Françoise La France.”
“Yes, I know that..You have had a hard time since Joe died.”
“I been anxion”—she clasped her hands and looked pleadingly at him—“I been very anxion!”
“Well, you're all right now.”
“You let me do de mend'? I can sew. I use' learn to sew when I have t'ing to sew on.”