'Marie,' I
said, 'I've a mind to throw my muff in the fence-corner and run and hang
on behind that wagon that's going down-hill.' She had no idea that I was
in earnest. She just smiled very politely and said, 'Oh, mademoiselle,
impossible! How you Americans do love to jest.' But it was no joke. You
can't imagine how stupid it is to be with nobody but grown people all
the time. I'm fairly aching for a good old game of hi spy or prisoner's
base with you. There is nothing at all to do, but to take poky walks.
"Yesterday afternoon we walked down to the river. There's a double row
of trees along it on this side, and several benches where people can
wait for the tram-cars that pass down this street and then across the
bridge into Tours. Marie found an old friend of hers sitting on one of
the benches,--such a big fat woman, and oh, such a gossip! Marie said
she was tired, so we sat there a long time. Her friend's name is
Clotilde Robard. They talked about everybody in St. Symphorien.
"Then I gossiped, too. I asked Clotilde Robard if she knew why the gate
with the big scissors was never opened any more. She told me that she
used to be one of the maids there, before she married the spice-monger
and was Madame Robard. Years before she went to live there, when the old
Monsieur Ciseaux died, there was a dreadful quarrel about some money.
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