She did not braid her hair, but let it hang over her shoulders.

She put a pair of slippers upon her bare feet, and drawing an armchair in front of the window, seated herself, and waited in patience.
Angelique did not pretend to know how he would appear.

Without doubt, he would not come up the stairs, and it might be that she would simply see him over the Clos-Marie, while she leaned from the balcony.

Still, she kept her place on the threshold of the window, as it seemed to her useless to go and watch for him just yet.

So vague was her idea of real life, so mystic was love, that she did not understand in her imaginative nature why he might not pass through the walls, like the saints in the legends.