“Old Yvonne's tipsy!” was the cry.
She had fallen, and the street children ran after her. It was just at
the boundary of the parish of Ploubazlanec, where many houses straggle
along the roadside. But she had the strength to rise and hobble along on
her stick.
“Old Yvonne's tipsy!”
The bold little creatures stared her full in the face, laughing. Her
_coiffe_ was all awry. Some of these little ones were not really wicked,
and these, when they scanned her closer and saw the senile grimace of
bitter despair, turned aside, surprised and saddened, daring to say
nothing more.
At home, with the door tightly closed, she gave vent to the deep scream
of despair that choked her, and fell down in a corner, her head against
the wall. Her cap had fallen over her eyes; she threw off roughly what
formerly had been so well taken care of. Her Sunday dress was soiled,
and a thin mesh of yellowish white hair strayed from beneath her cap,
completing her pitiful, poverty-stricken disorder.