He wore a battered sunhelmet, a loin-cloth and a pair of dilapidated canvas shoes. Jolly nice girl, too. “You wish me to stay?” he asked, in a low tone. Guiltily, she felt very little for him, and yet she wondered what he would be like. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. She's not for pleasure, but for work. She looked at her for a moment fixedly. ‘Like you?’ ‘But I am not French. He would be so disappointed.
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