She remembered the history of its construction; it was after the finding of a derelict vessel in the channel, which luck had befallen Yann's father and his cousin the pilot.
The room was very gay and pretty in its whiteness; there were two town beds in it, with pink chintz curtains, and a large table in the middle.

Through the window the whole of Paimpol could be seen, with the Icelanders at anchor off shore, and the channel through which they passed.
She did not dare question, but she would have liked to have known where Yann slept; probably as a child he had slept downstairs in one of the antique cupboard-beds.

But perhaps now he slept under those pink draperies.

She would have loved to have known all the details of his life, especially what he did in the long winter evenings.
A heavy footstep on the stairs made her tremble.

But it was not Yann, though a man much like him; notwithstanding his white hair, as tall and as straight.