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T H E H E A D A N D T H E A R M
A chill autumn rain was falling; the bitter wind swept it in gusts against his face as he turned into the quiet shabby street. He had left the noisy, lighted wineshops of the harbor quarter behind him. This was the respectable section of Marseille, seldom visited by seamen who put into the roistering port.
The young sailor paused for a moment beneath a flickering gas light, examining the superscription of a letter. The wind almost lifted his peaked master’s cap from his head. It cut through the striped basque shirt which had been protection enough in the balmy Mediterranean air. He did not feel its chill. This was the street. There, midway of its length, was the tiny shop of the Widow Lestrange. He laughed excitedly as he strode toward it.
His entrance set a little bell tinkling. A sour-faced woman of middle age put down her knitting and rose to face him across the counter.
“Yes, monsieur? How can I serve you?”
The young man looked about the little shop and smiled. The place was stocked with women’s gear: bolts of sober dress goods, cards of buttons, sturdy cotton stockings. A pair of stays dangled just above his head.
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