Will write."
She was hoping that Reverend Mother would not scold her for what she had
done, when suddenly another cliff, white as the cliffs of Dover,
glimmered through the haze. Then she forgot her sackcloth, for,
according to the Frenchman, this was old Grisnez, pushing its inquiring
nose into the sea; and beyond loomed the tall lighthouse of Calais.
It was absurdly wonderful on landing at Calais to hear every one talking
French. Of course, Mary had known that it would be so, but actually to
hear it, and to think that these people had spoken French since they
were babies, was ridiculously nice. She felt rewarded for all the pains
she had taken to learn verbs and acquire exactly the right accent; and
she half smiled in a friendly way at the dark porters in their blue
blouses, and at the toylike policemen with their swords and capes. Her
porter was a cross-looking, elderly man, but at the smile she had for
him he visibly softened; and, with her dressing-bag slung by a strap
over his broad shoulder, made an aggressive shield of his stout body to
pilot her through the crowd.
Now she left behind the two Englishwomen and her French acquaintance,
for she was a passenger in the _luxe_, which started earlier than the
ordinary first-class train for Paris. The Frenchman hoped and believed
that she would regret his society, but she forgot him before the train
went out, having no premonition of any future meeting.
This, then, was what they called a _wagon lit_! She was delighted with
her quarters, supposing, as the compartment seemed small, that it was
entirely for her use during the journey.
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