A noble woman under the mud, be certain.

_I_ would kneel down to her, too, if she would leave it all, throw it off, and be herself as God made her.

But she would not care for my kneeling; she does not care for me.

Perhaps she doesn't care for anybody by this time--who knows?
She wrote one, or two, or three kind notes to me, and promised to 'venir m'embrasser' before she left Paris; but she did not come.

We both tried hard to please her, and she told a friend of ours that she 'liked us'; only we always felt that we couldn't penetrate--couldn't really _touch_ her--it was all vain.