Explore "Forget-me-not" by Marjorie Bowen on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
It was nearly dark when she again rang the bell of Madame Santerre's small house. She had neither eaten, nor drunk, nor rested all day. She was not aware of any fatigue, only of a lightness in her head. It was M. Santerre who opened the door this time, as quickly as if he had been in readiness, waiting behind the door. He looked at her eyes gleaming behind the veil, he could see no more of her face than that. Her thin shoes were covered with mud, the white braid of her dress, to which fragments of dead leaves and earth were clinging, was dirty, her gloves were torn and her bag was hanging open and empty on her arm.
"You must not come in," he said quickly, "my wife was too kind. I will not have it, you must go away at once."