As she was looking out of the window one day, she saw a woman sit down
in the dust in the middle of the village street, between a stone and a
wheel-rut, and unswathe her little baby. The child lay face downward,
the upper part of its body in the shade, moving its little legs,
crossing its feet, and kicking about, and the sun caressed it lovingly
as it does the bare limbs of a child. A few rays that played over it
seemed to strew on its little feet some of the rose petals of a
Fête-Dieu procession. When the mother and child had gone away Renée
still went on gazing out of the window.