Quite soon, after we were married—it was just within a year—I formed a friendship with the wife of a friend, a woman eight years older than myself. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. Did she suppose him a possible pretender to her daughter’s hand? The girl—Dorothée, if memory served—was clearly marriageable, but he imagined most of these unhappy exiles were all but penniless. " "Perhaps not," replied Jack, to whom an idea had suddenly occurred. "What do you want with me?" "A word in private," replied the other. I've been thinking about it ever since morning. ‘What in the world is that?’ demanded Miss Froxfield.
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