” They entered the place, a pleasant little café of the sort to be met with in the outlying parts of Paris. “I am sure,” she said, “that you mean to stay until you are turned out. You belong to me, and I have waited long enough. "Keep a sharp look out, Bess. We can’t afford to turn our women, our Madonnas, our Saint Catherines, our Mona Lisas, our goddesses and angels and fairy princesses, into a sort of man. Seldom they molested a woman who appeared to know where she was going and who kept her glance resolutely to the fore. Drink this!” He poured out a glass of wine with a firm hand, and held it to her lips. “Dear me!” he said. He remained standing by the stem of the proa, his glance roving investigatingly. Wouldn't it be fun to see his name on a book-cover some day? He'll go strutting up and down without ever dreaming he owed the whole shot to us. She got up and unlocked the door. She glanced at him and made a dismissive gesture. She breathed into a cloth soaked in rose oil as Sebastian had prescribed, but the smell of roses mixed obscenely with the smell of death and decay, causing her to retch.
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