The Well of Loneliness

That spring, in the foyer of the Comédie Francaise, Stephen stumbled across a link with the past in the person of a middle-aged woman. The woman was stout and wore pince-nez; her sparse brown hair was already greying; her face, which was long, had a double chin, and that face seemed vaguely familiar to Stephen. Then suddenly Stephen's two hands were seized and held fast in those of the middle-aged woman, while a voice grown loud with delight and emotion was saying:

"Mais oui, c'est ma petite Stévenne!"