Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. . . ” “Why did you tell me? I thought—I thought we were going to be friends. Insulting cries became frequent and various, but for the most part she could not understand what was said. ” “It is you,” he cried, “you, who are talking folly, when you speak of friendship between you and me. It is but a wild threat. ” He said. They could not go on. “My dear boy,” she exclaimed.
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