Then I make for my home, in this evening which comes at the end of all the days I have lived.
* * * * * * Little Antoinette,--how comes it that they leave her all alone like this ?--is standing in my path and holding a hand out towards me.

It is her way that she is begging for.

I guide her, ask questions and listen, leaning over her and making little steps.

But she is too little, and too lispful, and cannot explain.

Carefully I lead the child,--who sees so feebly that already she is blind in the evening, as far as the low door of the dilapidated dwelling where she nests.
In my street, in front of his lantern-shaped house, with its iron-grilled dormer, old Eudo is standing, darkly hooded, and pointed, like the house.
I am a little afraid of him.