She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. Blank it was, except for a gate near the bridgehead. She was frightfully hungry. “Garçon,” he said, “will you ask the gentleman at the next table if he will do me the honour of taking a glass of wine with me. I’ve seen him, and he doesn’t a bit understand.
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