Come along, m'sieu' dusty-belly." Pomfrette's life in Pontiac went on as it began that day.

Not once a day, and sometimes not once in twenty days, did any human being speak to him.

The village baker would not sell him bread; his groceries he had to buy from the neighbouring parishes, for the grocer's flighty wife called for the constable when he entered the bake-shop of Pontiac.

He had to bake his own bread, and do his own cooking, washing, cleaning, and gardening.

His hair grew long and his clothes became shabbier.