She said it to-day, shutting her arms down to her side, closing her eyes with her eyebrows raised, and dropping into her chair at the table like a dead bird from its perch.

Not that she felt particularly hungry; but there is a certain desultoriness allowable at table more than elsewhere, and which suited the hither-thither movement of her conflicting feelings.

This is why she had wished for dinner.
Boiled shrimps, rice, claret-and-water, bread--they were dining well the day before execution.

Dining is hardly correct, either, for Clotilde, at least, did not eat; they only sat.

Clotilde had, too, if not her unknown, at least her unconfessed emotions.