She went on knitting in
silence till a sudden shadow came between her and the sunlight, and
a girl's voice, harsh, yet with a certain broken sweetness in it,
said--
"A fine morning's killing, aye! All their necks wrung,--all dead
birds! Once they could fly--fly and swim! Fly and swim! All dead
now--and sold cheap in the open market!"
A shrill laugh finished this outburst, but Martine knew who it was
that spoke, and maintained her equanimity.
"Is that you again, Marguerite?" she said, not unkindly--"You will
tire yourself to death wandering about the streets all day."
Marguerite Valmond, "la folle" as she was called by the townsfolk,
shook her head and smiled cunningly. She was a tall girl, with black
hair disordered and falling loosely about her pale face,--her eyes
were dark and lustrous, but wild, and with a hunted expression in
them,--and her dress was composed of the strangest remnants of oddly
assorted materials and colours pinned about her without any order or
symmetry, the very idea of decent clothing being hardly considered,
as her bosom was half exposed and her legs were bare. She wore no
head-covering, and her whole aspect was that of one who had suddenly
awakened from a hideous dream and was striving to forget its
horrors.
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