The hostess, an old woman with white hair and a kind face, approached the little old man; for once in her life she was roused to anger.
"I can't think how you could be so stupid," she said. "See what you have done."
"I did it for a purpose," he said.
"For a purpose?"
"I have always thought that girl was the culprit. I have to thank you for the opportunity you have given me of making sure."
THE CLAVECIN, BRUGES[4]
By George Wharton Edwards
A silent, grass-grown market-place, upon the uneven stones of which the sabots of a passing peasant clatter loudly. A group of sleepy-looking soldiers in red trousers lolling about the wide portal of the Belfry, which rears aloft against the pearly sky
All the height it has
Of ancient stone.