All her sacrifice had been in vain.

It was then that she really experienced the disciplinary irony of existence.

She never wore the hat again; wherein she was blameless.
The spring deepened into summer, and they stayed on in the Boulevard Raspail until they gave up making plans.

Paris baked in the sun, and theaters perished, and riders disappeared from the Acacias, and Cook's brakes replaced the flashing carriages in the grand Avenue des Champs Elysees, and the great Anglo-Saxon language resounded from the Place de la Bastille to the Bon Marche.

The cab horses drooped as if drugged by the vapor of the melting asphalt beneath their noses.