“I believe it is. He passed but a cursory glance over the formal certificate that identified the Frenchman before him as one André Valade, distant cousin to the Vicomte Valade. She laughed as the deluge seemed to grow worse with every step. I don’t think I’ve got illusions, nor you. The shops were lighting up into gigantic lanterns of color, the street lamps were glowing into existence, and she had lost her way. He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling. All human food tasted equally dead and loathsome to her, whether it was prime steak or cheap hamburger. The dress came to her only too manifestly unwashed from its former wearer; even the under-linen they gave her seemed unclean. "Oh! if this is the case, do not stay an instant. “What a beautiful mare’s nest!” she exclaimed. Whenever ecstasy— any kind of ecstasy—filled her heart to bursting, these physical expressions eased the pressure. .
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