La Blanchisseuse Dorée by Marjorie Pickthall

As Père Barthélemy turned out of the gusty, dusty street, where the wind / had been tugging rudely at his old soutane, and into Mère Bazane's yard, / he stepped into peace. Smiling, he flicked the dust off his sleeve with / delicate fingers, looking at the tubs under the apple-trees, at the / little gray shanty, and at the sign over the door. It seemed to him that / the tarnished letters were full of little, gaping mouths, ready to snap / at a possible customer. Some penniless student had painted the sign for / her, long ago; "La Blanchisseuse Dorée," in a fat flourish of gold. / "Long ago," said Père Barthélemy, with something of a sigh, "when she / was not called the White-foot for nothing."

But there she was, toiling at her tubs, and Père Barthélemy knew she / needed smiles from him, not sighs.