She opened wide both the windows of her room, and from outside there
floated in a busy, happy murmur, for Paris is an early city, and nine
o'clock there is equivalent to eleven o'clock in London.
She heard the picturesque street cries of the flower-sellers in the
Avenue de l'Opera--"Beflower yourselves, gentlemen and ladies, beflower
yourselves!"
The gay, shrill sounds floated in to her, and, in spite of her bad night
and ugly dreams, she felt extraordinarily well and happy.
Cities are like people. In some cities one feels at home at once; others
remain, however well acquainted we become with them, always strangers.
Sylvia Bailey, born, bred, married, widowed in an English provincial
town, had always felt strange in London. But with Paris,--dear,
delightful, sunny Paris,--she had become on the closest, the most
affectionately intimate terms from the first day. She had only been
here a month, and yet she already knew with familiar knowledge the
quarter in which was situated her quiet little hotel, that wonderful
square mile--it is not more--which has as its centre the Paris Opera
House, and which includes the Rue de la Paix and the beginning of
each of the great arteries of modern Paris.
Pages:
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47