Do you know anything of his friends? Is there any one for whom we ought to send?” “I know very little of him beyond his name,” Anna answered. The commissionaire stood there, tall and imperturbable. The cry was echoed by twenty different voices. Lucy clasped her hands over her ears as it screamed. They had both been unsuccessful. Almost at once she had comprehended that she was expected to write down her name and address, which she did, in slanting cobwebby lettering, perhaps a trifle laboriously. 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. Well, my dear, it is time you stopped wallowing in your sorrows like a common wretch. He is the one who has said that she must go to the convent.
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