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 over. She had never had such a time at Angoulême since her birth: rows on the river by sunset and moonlight, she steering, I rowing, and all the boatmen looking on and cheering lustily; walks here, drives there, and Tom, the glorious Tom, in honour of my nationality, permitted to walk with her, free beneath the free heavens.

I saw many artisans at Jeanne's, and never in one of either sex a hint of grossness, of boorishness, of stupidity. Jeanne, I admit, was the pearl of her set, speaking with polished diction, of manners gentle and urbane, only a nurse, and yet a perfect lady in everything. Her bedroom denoted her own charming refinement, with its blue and white curtains, its spotless prettiness, the flower vases, and little bookcase not ignobly filled. She spoke continuously of herself, of her wishes and dreams. Well, never once did I get a suspicion of a flirtation in her life. She spoke of men with dignity and simplicity, without simper or giggle, and made no effort to lead me to believe that she was pursued by lovers. When she referred to the shoemaker's addresses, it was simply to express her judicious fear of the immense responsibility of the post of stepmother. Her dreams were not sordid or vulgar. She wanted more liberty as a young girl, freedom to walk about with Tom, and not be hampered with so many unwise and unwritten laws. For the rest, she seemed content with the