"No. In a sense, I pay to come." The eye of the Frenchman said,
"Englishwoman!"

Each day she drove in a wash of rain. Each night she returned long after
dark, and putting her car in the garage, felt her way up the inky road
by the rushing of the river at its edge, crossed the wooden bridge, and
entered the cell which she tried to make her personal haven.

But if personal, it was the personality of a dog; it had the character
of a kennel. She had brought no furnishings with her from England; she
could buy nothing in the town. The wooden floor was swamped by the rain
which blew through the window; the paper on the walls was torn by rats;
tarry drops from the roof had fallen upon her unmade bed.

The sight of this bed caused her a nightly dismay. "Oh, if I could but
make it in the morning how different this room would look!"

There would be no one in the sitting-room, but a tin would stand on the
stove with one, two, or three pieces of meat in it. By this she knew
whether the cubicles were full or if one or two were empty. Sometimes
the coffee jug would rise too lightly from the floor as she lifted it,
and in an angry voice she would call through the hut: "There is no
coffee!" Silence, silence; till a voice, goaded by the silence, cried:
"Ask Madeleine!"

And Madeleine, the little maid, had long since gone over to laugh with
the men in the garage.

Then came the owners of the second and third piece of meat, stumbling
across the bridge and up the corridor, lantern in hand. And Fanny,