Dowry

The fear for the French women, Allie had adduced, was that of economics. Centuries of policy that built in substantial vacations and low working hours had resulted in a country that had fewer haves, and a burgeoning class of disaffected have-nots. You'd think they'd learn from the French Revolution, Allie thought, chuckling.

Still, she sat through, abstaining from **** as they drunk the delicious wine that only the French could produce.

"I could show you a place that still has plenty of wealth. That could fund the dowries your parents seek and more," Allie said.

"I'm sure," Simone, the younger of the two, barely out of secondary school, said, stubbing out her cigarette. "Of all the women around here, I do not believe you are the one that knows the haves, my American friend."

"What's the harm?" Chloe, the older one said. They were both willowy brunettes, with centuries of good breeding. Simone, ironically, was the more acerbic and withering of the two.

The Al-Assaf compound was in the heart of Paris, a gleaming three story structure. It was most famed for its courtyard, with well-manicured gardens and fountains that flowed with crisp, clean water. Simone looked with large, hungry eyes.

"So how do I meet the owner of this establishment?" she asked breathlessly.