Carlotta and Antoinette have adjoining rooms in the
main building. I inhabit the annexe, sleeping in a quaint,
clean, bare little chamber with a balconied window that looks
over the Noah's Arks and the fishing-smacks and fisherfolk, away
out to sea. This morning as I lay in bed I saw our Channel fleet
lie along the arc of the horizon.
Antoinette dwells in continuous rapture at being in France again.
Carlotta assures me that the smile does not leave her great red
face even as she sleeps of nights. It is a little jest between
us. She peeped in once to see. The good soul has filled herself
up with French conversation as a starving hen gorges herself with
corn. She has scraped acquaintance with every washerwoman,
fish-wife, _marchande_, bathing woman and domestic servant on the
beach. She is on intimate terms with the whole male native
population. When the three of us happen to walk together it is a
triumphal progress of bows and grins and nods. At first I
thought it was I for whom this homage was intended.
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