"Old Yvonne's tipsy!" was the cry.
She had fallen, and the street children ran after her. It was just atthe boundary of the parish of Ploubazlanec, where many houses stragglealong the roadside. But she had the strength to rise and hobble alongon her stick.
"Old Yvonne's tipsy!"The bold little creatures stared her full in the face, laughing. Her/coiffe/ was all awry. Some of these little ones were not reallywicked, and these, when they scanned her closer and saw the senilegrimace of bitter despair, turned aside, surprised and saddened,daring to say nothing more.
At home, with the door tightly closed, she gave vent to the deepscream of despair that choked her, and fell down in a corner, her headagainst the wall. Her cap had fallen over her eyes; she threw offroughly what formerly had been so well taken care of. Her Sunday dresswas soiled, and a thin mesh of yellowish white hair strayed frombeneath her cap, completing her pitiful, poverty-stricken disorder.
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