Anna sprang lightly away across the street. The folds of a thick muslin neckcloth in some degree protected him, but the gash was desperate. No mother would have sent her daughter into the world with such a wardrobe. But somehow he could not bring any of these affairs to an orderly end. ‘Oh, Marthe,’ she groaned, using in her accustomed way the French version of her nurse’s name, ‘that pig is going to monsieur le baron. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. I don’t think of you as a kid. The more haste, the worse speed—better the feet slip than the tongue. A day will come when you will thank me.
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