Before they reached the room from which the sounds of the clavichord came, the pretty, fair haired Frenchwoman, Mademoiselle Bourienne, rushed out apparently beside herself with delight.
He said nothing to her but looked at her forehead and hair, without looking at her eyes, with such contempt that the Frenchwoman blushed and went away without a word.
Anatole answered the Frenchwoman very readily and, looking at her with a smile, talked to her about her native land.
She raised her eyes, and two steps away saw Anatole embracing the Frenchwoman and whispering something to her.
For them all, that old-fashioned house with its gigantic mirrors, pre-Revolution furniture, powdered footmen, and the stern shrewd old man (himself a relic of the past century) with his gentle daughter and the pretty Frenchwoman who were reverently devoted to him presented a majestic and agreeable spectacle.
How would you define Frenchwoman? Add your definition here.