It was a warm spring evening, and
the window was open. A crowd of noisy sparrows seemed to be delighted
about something. From somewhere, unseen, a blackbird was singing. She
read over her report for Mrs. Denton. The blackbird seemed never to have
heard of war. He sang as if the whole world were a garden of languor and
love. Joan looked at her watch. The first gong would sound in a few
minutes. She pictured the dreary, silent dining-room with its few
scattered occupants, and her heart sank at the prospect. To her relief
came remembrance of a cheerful but entirely respectable restaurant near
to the Louvre to which she had been taken a few nights before. She had
noticed quite a number of women dining there alone. She closed her
dispatch case with a snap and gave a glance at herself in the great
mirror. The blackbird was still singing.
She walked up the Rue des Sts. Peres, enjoying the delicious air. Half
way across the bridge she overtook a man, strolling listlessly in front
of her. There was something familiar about him. He was wearing a grey
suit and had his hands in his pockets.
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