At the moment of leaving I saw this Marie Keremenen, whom I had half
dreaded to meet. She was a young woman of about twenty years of age,
dressed in the costume of the village of Toulven, in lower Brittany.
Her fine dark eyes were clear and frank. Without being absolutely
pretty, she had a certain charm in her embroidered bodice, her white
wide-winged head-dress, and her large collarette recalling a Medici
ruff.
There was about her something candid, something wholesome which it did
you good to see. It seemed to me that she was exactly what I should have
looked for if it had fallen to me to choose for my brother Yves.