‘As to Gérard, I do not know why he does this. 207 She romanced a dark-haired farmer a few times, having long since forgotten his name. She was always the last person to exit after the crowds had stampeded, trailing slowly behind them like dust. He had, he felt, to create certain ideas and vivify certain curiosities and feelings in her. She entered quietly and padded up to her shared bedroom. I said I’d make shirts. ” “She does. ” “Many other people,” she remarked, “have made the same mistake. What our dear mother would say back home I dread to think. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. “Who decorated the school like this?” She asked, peering up at the multicolored banners that hung everywhere. She had tried him as a Crusader, in which guise he seemed plausible but heavy—“There IS something heavy about him; I wonder if it’s his mustache?”—and as a Hussar, which made him preposterous, and as a Black Brunswicker, which was better, and as an Arab sheik.
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