"Do you mean the foreigner?" "Yes." "Second door."
With those instructions the upper half of the witch sank and vanished.
Stella gathered her skirts together, and ascended a filthy flight of
stairs for the first time in her life.
Coarse voices, shameless language, gross laughter behind the closed
doors of the first floor hurried her on her way to the rooms on the
higher flight. Here there was a change for the better--here, at least,
there was silence. She knocked at the door on the landing of the second
floor. A gentle voice answered, in French; "Entrez!"--then quickly
substituted the English equivalent, "Come in!" Stella opened the door.
The wretchedly furnished room was scrupulously clean. Above the
truckle-bed, a cheap little image of the Virgin was fastened to the
wall, with some faded artificial flowers arranged above it in the form
of a wreath. Two women, in dresses of coarse black stuff, sat at a small
round table, working at the same piece of embroidery. The elder of the
two rose when the visitor entered the room. Her worn and weary face
still showed the remains of beauty in its finely proportioned parts--her
dim eyes rested on Stella with an expression of piteous entreaty.
Pages:
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187