Cheeks, lips, and eyes were heavily charged with rouge,
powder, or black. And that too abundant waist had been most
cunningly confined in a belt that descended beneath, instead of
rising above, the lower masses of the vast torso. The general
effect was worthy of the effort that must have gone to it. Madame
Foucault was not rejuvenated by her toilette, but it almost
procured her pardon for the crime of being over forty, fat,
creased, and worn out. It was one of those defeats that are a
triumph.
"You are very chic," said Sophia, uttering her admiration.
"Ah!" said Madame Foucault, shrugging the shoulders of
disillusion. "Chic! What does that do?"
But she was pleased.
The front-door banged. Sophia, by herself for the first time in
the flat into which she had been carried unconscious and which she
had never since left, had the disturbing sensation of being
surrounded by mysterious rooms and mysterious things. She tried to
continue reading, but the sentences conveyed nothing to her. She
rose--she could walk now a little--and looked out of the window,
through the interstices of the pattern of the lace curtains. The
window gave on the courtyard, which was about sixteen feet below
her.
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