noon
_ '' Since she was only a little girl with hair as black as a gipsy 's , a ruddy olive skin , fresh young lips and a well-knit , compact body , hardened by constant exposure to the sea air and sun , no one bothered their heads much about her name . She was only a child who smiled when the passerby would give her a chance , which was seldom , and when she did , she disclosed teeth as white as the tiny shells on the beach . There were whole days on the marsh when she saw no one . At noon , when the cracked bell in the distant belfry of the gray church of Pont du Sable sent its discordant note quavering across the marsh , Yvonne drew forth a sailor 's knife from where it lay tucked safe within the breast of her coarse chemise , and untying a square of blue cotton cloth , cut in two her portion of peasant bread , saving half the bread and half a bottle of Père Bourron 's thinnest cider for the late afternoon . There were days , too , when Marianne coming up from the sea with her nets , stopped to rest beside the child and talk . Yvonne having no mother which she could remember , Marianne had become a sort of transient mother to her , whom the incoming tide sometimes brought her and whom she would wait for with uncertain expectancy , often for days . One afternoon , early in the spring , when the cows were feeding in the scant slanting shade of the dunes , Yvonne fell asleep .