It is a day of radiant sunshine, such as February affords from time to time. It is bitterly cold but the light is dazzling. She has a beer on the terrace at Rosa Bonheur. In the daytime, even old ladies can sit on the terrace without being stared at. Paris is wonderful in this respect. She drinks too much, she drinks like an alcoholic—starting early in the morning, small doeses, in secret. Gently. Her face bears the marks of the booze. Another expression of defeat. Her son pretends not to notice. He is afraid of her. He is afraid he might have to listen to her talk about something other than her lung X-rays or delays in the Métro. Besides, she bores him.
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