I inhabit the annexe, sleeping in a quaint, clean, bare little chamber with a balconied window that looks over the Noah's Arks and the fishing-smacks and fisherfolk, away out to sea.

This morning as I lay in bed I saw our Channel fleet lie along the arc of the horizon.
Antoinette dwells in continuous rapture at being in France again.
Carlotta assures me that the smile does not leave her great red face even as she sleeps of nights.

It is a little jest between us.

She peeped in once to see.

The good soul has filled herself up with French conversation as a starving hen gorges herself with corn.