A strange look passed across the face of each, then they turned and went in opposite directions.
Never in her life had time gone so slowly with Rosalie.

She watched the clock.

A dozen times she went to the front door and looked out.

She tried to read--it was no use; she tried to spin-her fingers trembled; she sorted the letters in the office again, and rearranged every letter and parcel and paper in its little pigeonhole--then did it all over again.

She took out again the letter Paulette had dropped in the letter-box; it was addressed in the name of the man at Montreal.