marguerite

“I remember people coming in with a cake to pay the bill,” recalls Cordice's daughter, Marguerite.

During the time I knew Marguerite, there was only one moment in which I truly felt any compassion for her.

Marguerite Claverie Oswald was, indeed, a difficult and bizarre woman.

Marguerite hoped it would be the prelude to a book she wanted to write, and asked if I could get it published somewhere.

Without missing a beat, Marguerite replied, “That will be another two hundred dollars.”

And in spite of myself I began to feel melancholy over the fate of Marguerite Gautier.

Marguerite was a pretty woman; but though the life of such women makes sensation enough, their death makes very little.

Marguerite had a marvellous portrait of herself, by Vidal, the only man whose pencil could do her justice.

Marguerite, alone at Bagneres with her maid, and not being in any fear of compromising herself, granted the duke's request.

Marguerite was always present at every first night, and passed every evening either at the theatre or the ball.