CHAPTER VI
A CHARITABLE ASSUMPTION
"Old Yvonne's tipsy!" was the cry.
She had fallen, and the street children ran after her. It was just at
the boundary of the parish of Ploubazlanec, where many houses straggle
along the roadside. But she had the strength to rise and hobble along
on her stick.
"Old Yvonne's tipsy!"
The bold little creatures stared her full in the face, laughing. Her
/coiffe/ was all awry. Some of these little ones were not really
wicked, and these, when they scanned her closer and saw the senile
grimace of bitter despair, turned aside, surprised and saddened,
daring to say nothing more.
At home, with the door tightly closed, she gave vent to the deep
scream of despair that choked her, and fell down in a corner, her head
against the wall. Her cap had fallen over her eyes; she threw off
roughly what formerly had been so well taken care of. Her Sunday dress
was soiled, and a thin mesh of yellowish white hair strayed from
beneath her cap, completing her pitiful, poverty-stricken disorder.
