She has twice appeared on the threshold in her fine black dress and velvet cape; then, having forgotten something, she has gone back very quickly, like a mole.

Finally, she must needs go up to my room, to cast a last glance over it.
At last we are off, side by side.

She takes my arm proudly.

From time to time she looks at me, and I at her, and her smile is an affectionate grimace amid the sunshine.
When we have gone a little way, my aunt stops, "You go on," she says; "I'll catch you up." She has gone up to Apolline, the street-sweeper.

The good woman, as broad as she is long, was gaping on the edge of the causeway, her two parallel arms feebly rowing in the air, an exile in the Sabbath idleness, and awkwardly conscious of her absent broom.
Mame brings her along, and looking back as I walk, I hear her talking of me, hastily, as one who confides a choking secret, while Apolline follows, with her arms swinging far from her body, limping and outspread like a crab.
Says Mame, "That boy's bedroom is untidy.