She recalled him. Her little bedsitting-room was like a lair, and she went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an animal goes out to seek food. She thought of them as fools, but had been sorry to see them go. ” 209 Clotilde was no fool. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. It is easy enough to sing these little chansons in an original way—it requires a very different sort of ability to succeed on the stage. But she has let fall enough for me to understand that she knows about her father’s misdeeds. "I have hurt you because I would not trust you. "But, we'll soon see.
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