Little did I imagine at the time that it was my own father to whom he referred. She sat in a chair in the parlour and regarded the darkening sky through the small casement window. “Then I suppose when I have graduated I am to come home?” “It seems the natural course—” “And do nothing?” “There are plenty of things a girl can find to do at home. Did she suppose him a possible pretender to her daughter’s hand? The girl—Dorothée, if memory served—was clearly marriageable, but he imagined most of these unhappy exiles were all but penniless. Instinct had forced her to create something out of rags to satisfy a mysterious craving. The Ragged Edge.
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