Lord, what a state I was in! Night after night I sat there, I watched her come in, I watched her go. When the paroxysm passed, he was forced to lean against the window-jamb for support. You understand. He learnt that his sister was privately married—the name or rank of her husband could not be ascertained—and living in retirement in an obscure dwelling in the Borough, where she had given birth to a son. Did she suppose him a possible pretender to her daughter’s hand? The girl—Dorothée, if memory served—was clearly marriageable, but he imagined most of these unhappy exiles were all but penniless.
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