The color of the men's coats
were problematical; such shoes, in more fashionable quarters, are only
to be seen lying in the gutter; the cuffs and collars were worn and
frayed at the edges; every limp article of clothing looked like the
ghost of its former self. The women's dresses were faded,
old-fashioned, dyed and re-dyed; they wore gloves that were glazed
with hard wear, much-mended lace, dingy ruffles, crumpled muslin
fichus. So much for their clothing; but, for the most part, their
frames were solid enough; their constitutions had weathered the storms
of life; their cold, hard faces were worn like coins that have been
withdrawn from circulation, but there were greedy teeth behind the
withered lips. Dramas brought to a close or still in progress are
foreshadowed by the sight of such actors as these, not the dramas that
are played before the footlights and against a background of painted
canvas, but dumb dramas of life, frost-bound dramas that sere hearts
like fire, dramas that do not end with the actors' lives.
Mlle. Michonneau, that elderly young lady, screened her weak eyes from
the daylight by a soiled green silk shade with a rim of brass, an
object fit to scare away the Angel of Pity himself.
Pages:
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29