My answer was the same as theirs.
I slipped into her palm (with a "Many thanks!" of which she took no notice) a piece of gold, which brought another smile, a curtsey, and she is gone.
This smile comes only once a year; it is not reproduced at any other period, but is a dividend payable in one instalment.

This, and a tear on All Souls' Day, when she has been to place a bunch of chrysanthemums on her baby's grave, are the only manifestations of sensibility that I have discovered in her.

From the second of January to the second of November she is a human creature tied to a bell-rope, with an immovably stolid face and a monosyllabic vocabulary in which politer terms occur but sparsely.
This morning, contrary to her habits, she has brought up by post two letters; one from my Uncle Mouillard (an answer), and the other--I don't recognize the other.

Let's open it first: big envelope, ill-written address, Paris postmark.

Hallo! a smaller envelope inside, and on it: ANTOINE AND MARIE PLUMET.
Poor souls! they have no visiting-cards.