But she shook her head like a solemn child.
"No, _mon petit_. You will not wish to be taking me to America. One
cannot change one's destiny like dat. You s'all not 'ang me like a
millstone aroun' your neck. My place is 'ere, in Paris, where I am
born, an' if de _bon Dieu_ will, where I s'all die. As for you, _mon
ami_, all will be well. De _vrai gamine_ is born wit' de what you
call--secon' sight. It is I, Piquette, who say dis to you."
He glanced at her curiously, aware of an air of fatalism in her words
and manner.
"How, Piquette?" he laughed.