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is met with strong self-defence: "I am no thief and I am no liar!" But she may tell you the tragic story of her life (and tragic it is if true) - her father assassinated before her eyes, of the livery-stable he kept, of the horses she rode; of her five brothers killed in the last war, of her home bombed and destroyed. Here she would like to cry, but her eyes, mere splits, are evil and too small for tears. One might be sorry for her but for the incredible inefficiency shown in everything she undertakes; the crass stupidity, the now cringing, the now unpleasant familiarity. "She can't ever have been a house-maid," I exclaim to Natalie. -"Those great red hands have certainly worked at something," replies Natalie.- "But at what?" - Yet, when I smile, this grim mask can actually smile back, if smile it be - that forced stretching out of lines meant to be rigidly vertical. But yesterday we thought the mystery solved when unexpectedly we came upon her seated in one of the high-back yellow damask chairs in what we call the yellow room. She was bespectacled and reading a paper. On seeing us she dropped the paper and fled. The leaflet she left behind was apparently in Russian. Later I asked her if she knew Russian; she answered negatively but admitted that she did know a little Polish. So the cat was out of the bag! She is a Pole !

But here she comes; half witch, half imbecile, emerging from an armful of pans, dusters, and brooms (about the use of which she knows little).