on the insolent, handsome face.

"I'd like to see him thrown into the river," said Virginie Poucette's
sister. "We have a nice girl here--come from Ireland--as good as can be.
Well, last night--but there, she oughtn't to have let him speak to her.
'A kiss is nothing,' he said. Well, if he kissed me I would kill him--if
I didn't vomit myself to death first. He's a mongrel--a South American
mongrel with nigger blood."

Jean Jacques kept looking after the man. "Why don't you turn him out?"
he asked sharply.

"He's going away to-morrow anyhow," she replied. "Besides, the girl,
she's so ashamed--and she doesn't want anyone to know. 'Who'd want to
kiss me after him' she said, and so he stays till to-morrow. He's not in
the tavern itself, but in the little annex next door-there, where he's
going now. He's only had his meals here, though the annex belongs to us
as well. He's alone there on his dung-hill."

She brought Jean Jacques into a room that overlooked the river--which,
indeed, hung on its very brink. From the steps at its river-door, a
little ferry-boat took people to the other side of the Watloon, and very
near--just a few hand-breadths away--was the annex where was the man who
had jostled Jean Jacques.




CHAPTER XXIII