And in corners and off stage, so to
speak, perhaps a half dozen men, watching her curiously.
The conversation was in French, and Sara Lee's acquaintance of the
passage acted as interpreter. It was only when Sara Lee found that a
considerable discussion was going on in which she had no part that she
looked round and saw her friend of two nights before and of the little
donkey. He was watching her intently, and when he caught her eye
he bowed.
Now men, in Sara Lee's mind, had until now been divided into the ones at
home, one's own kind, the sort who married one's friends or oneself, the
kind who called their wives "mother" after the first baby came, and were
easily understood, plain men, decent and God-fearing and self-respecting;
and the men of that world outside America, who were foreigners. One
might like foreigners, but they were outsiders.
So there was no self-consciousness in Sara Lee's bow and smile. Later
on Henri was to find that lack of self and sex consciousness one of the
maddening mysteries about Sara Lee. Perhaps he never quite understood
it. But always he respected it.
More conversation, in an increasing staccato.
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