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She had leaned gently toward Lissac and her elbows grazed the knees of her former lover. "I would wear, that day, one of those otter-trimmed toques that you have not forgotten." She saw that he trembled, as if he were moved by some unsatisfied desire for her. She felt reassured. "Nonsense!" she said with a smiling face. "You are not so bad as you pretend to be."
I shall stretch myself out on a reclining-chair and think that if, by chance, as happens sometimes an aneurism, a congestion, or I don't know what, should strike me down in that solitude, no one would know who I am, nobody, nobody, and my body would be taken to the Morgue, or to the grave, it matters little to me, that body of which the little otter-trimmed toques recall to you the graceful, serpentine line.
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