"My uncle's business may be settled in a few hours, or it may take him weeks." "The selling of his coffee ?" I asked dryly.
"But certainly!" she answered.
"And from here you go to where ?" I asked.
"Back to Paris," she answered, "and then, alas, to South America.

It is to be buried!" "You have lived long in Paris ?" I asked.
"Since I came there first to boarding-school," she answered.

"A little child I was, with my hair in pigtails and frocks to my knees.

I have learned to think, somehow, that Paris is my home.

What I have heard of South America I do not love.