Perfectly silent, too, about her
former life, but for all that, Michel, the quarter grocer at the corner,
and Mme. Laurent, who kept the rabbe shop opposite, had fixed it all up
between them, of her sad history and past glories. Not that they knew,
but then Michel must invent something when the neighbors came to him,
their fountain head of wisdom.
One morning little Miss Sophie opened wide her dingy windows to catch
the early freshness of the autumn wind as it whistled through the
yellow-leafed trees. It was one of those calm, blue-misted, balmy,
November days that New Orleans can have when all the rest of the country
is fur-wrapped. Miss Sophie pulled her machine to the window, where the
sweet, damp wind could whisk among her black locks.
Whirr, whirr, went the machine, ticking fast and lightly over the belts
of the rough jean pants. Whirr, whirr, yes, and Miss Sophie was actually
humming a tune! She felt strangely light to-day.
"_Ma foi_," muttered Michel, strolling across the street to where Mme.
Laurent sat sewing behind the counter on blue and brown-checked aprons,
"but the little ma'amselle sings. Perhaps she recollects."
"Perhaps," muttered the rabbe woman.
But little Miss Sophie felt restless.
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