She was in tears to-day.
She had stolen away from her bonne and was with some rustic infants. They had noses in the air, and large, coarse hands and feet.
They had seated themselves around a pool in the road, and were fashioning fantastic shapes in the clayey soil with their hands. Her throat swelled and her eyes sparkled with delight as, for the first time, her soft palms touched the plastic mud. She made a graceful and lovely pie. She stuffed it with stones for almonds and plums. She forgot everything. It was being baked in the solar rays, when madame came and took her away.
She weeps. It is night, and she is weeping still.
All books are sourced from Project Gutenberg