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The lace-maker, on the contrary, whose work requires only her thread and her fingers, is not disturbed by a refreshing breeze or a light shower; and even when the weather is not particularly fine, she prefers sitting at her street-door or in her garden, where she enjoys a brighter light than within doors.

Fandor had an inspiration. "Maybe she has received letters which will tell us! Have you the key of her room?" "Yes, I have the key; would you like to go up?" "Of course! I must make a search through her belongings." Jerome Fandor felt strangely agitated in entering the simple room of the young lace-maker.

At the foundation of her face, as it were, lies the face of the Burano lace-maker; only the original type has been so refined, so chiselled and smoothed away, that, to speak fancifully, only a beautiful ghost of it remains. That large stateliness of her movement, too, is Italian. You may see it in any Venetian street, and Veronese has fixed it in art.

"After the capitulation of the Duc d'Angouleme I found myself," deposes Paul Lambert, lace-maker of Nimes, "in one of several detachments under the orders of Commandant Magne and General Vogue. In the middle of a forest near a village, the name of which I do not know, M. de Vogue and the other officer, told us we might go home. The flag was folded up, and M. Magne put it in his pocket.

"A big mouth with a bark worse than his bite and not worth a slap." "He was on his guard right away. In case of accident!" replied Besuguito in his queer voice, imitating the posture of one who is about to attack with a knife. "I tell you," exclaimed El Pastiri, "he's a booby, and he's scared so stiff he can't stand." "Yes, but he answered every thrust, just the same," added the lace-maker. "Yah!

Next day and the rest of the week Florent Guillaume, for he could never light on his fat friend again nor yet any other good pilgrim with a well-lined travelling wallet, fasted a solis ortu usque ad occasum, from rising sun to dewy eve. Marguerite the lace-maker did likewise. This was very meet and right, seeing the time was Holy Week.

It was not what I expected. It was only an old woman, an old lace-maker, in search of her son, one of the street-sweepers employed by the municipality. Friends had come the day before at daybreak to the door of their hovel calling him out.

M. Annion evinced no surprise. "Unless I am mistaken you are the lace-maker who was so tragically mixed up in the death of Susy d'Orsel?... It was you who found the chemise ... it was you who ... however, go ahead, Mademoiselle, you were received by a secretary, by a chamberlain?" "No! no! I was received by the King, but by a King who wasn't the real one, but an impostor!"

With his baby attired in the trappings of a queen and his house swathed in lace that had taken the eyesight from many a poor lace-maker! He!

"And mine," added Sancho; "for I never in all my life saw a lace-maker that died for love; when damsels are at work their minds are more set on finishing their tasks than on thinking of their loves. I speak from my own experience; for when I'm digging I never think of my old woman; I mean my Teresa Panza, whom I love better than my own eyelids."