There are two young people on the sixth floor opposite, who come out on the balcony after dinner and hold on to each other and he tells her all about the work of the day.
Below there is a woman who sews nothing but black dresses, and who does that all day and all night by the light of a lamp.

And below the concierge stands all day in a lace cap and black gown and blue, and looks up the street and down the street like the woman in front of Hockley's.

BUT on the floor opposite mine there is a beautiful lady in a pink and white wrapper with long black hair and sleepy black eyes.
She does not take any interest in my pink wrapper, but contents herself with passing cabs and stray dogs and women with loaves of bread and bottles in their hands who occasionally stray into our street.

At six she appears in another gown and little slippers and a butterfly for a hat and says "Good-by" to the old concierge and trips off to dinner.
Lots of love to all.
DICK.
PARIS, May 11th, 1893.
DEAR MOTHER: I am still somewhat tentative as regards my opinion of the place, what it will bring me in the way of material I cannot tell.

So far, "Paris Decadent" would be a good title for anything I should write of it.