Chapter 31

Her sweet voice had no trace of the Breton accent nor of any accent which I knew, and yet there was something in it I seemed to have heard before, something quaint and indefinable, like the theme of an old song. I explained that I was an American, unacquainted with Finistère, shooting there for my own amusement. “An American,” she repeated in the same quaint musical tones. “I have never before seen an American.” For a moment she stood silent, then looking at me she said. “If you should walk all night you could not …