She was there, in the sun and surrounded by vermin, as pure as an amphora, fragrant as a flower.

She smiled.

What a mouth! The richest jewel in the most beautiful light.

I realized in time that this smile was addressed to a butcher standing behind me with his basket on his head." At the corner of the short street which goes to the quay, between two lines of small gardens, Madame Martin walked more slowly.
"It is true that at Venice," she said, "all women are pretty." "They are almost all pretty, Madame.

I speak of the common girls--the cigar-girls, the girls among the glass-workers.