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Updated: July 16, 2025
So long ago it was when Isabelle had been thrilled by her luncheon at the Woodyards'. She hurried her dinner now to escape the necessity of talking to Conny when her party passed out. But as she prepared to rise, she saw that they were coming towards her and sat down again, opening the magazine.
Many of the houses were intact except for scattered tiles and broken windows. The stately church was full of huge holes. All the streets were deserted. Beyond the town, on either side of the road, was a series of dumps, collecting stations, R.E. parks, workshops, and woodyards Mastenlager, Pi-Park, Gruppenwegebaustofflager, Pferdesammelstelle, and others.
The becraped passage at Meurice's alluded to a little back was of a later season, and the radiation, as I recall it, had been, that first winter, mainly from a petit hôtel somewhere "on the other side," as we used with a large sketchiness to say, of the Champs Elysées; a region at that time reduced to no regularity, but figuring to my fond fancy as a chaos of accidents and contrasts where petits hôtels of archaic type were elbowed by woodyards and cabarets, and pavilions ever so characteristic, yet ever so indefinable, snuggled between frank industries and vulgarities all brightened these indeed by the sociable note of Paris, be it only that of chaffering or of other bavardise.
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