They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. “You shall drive home with me in a hansom, if you will. She was dressed in one of those complicated dresses that are all lace and work and confused patternings of black and purple and cream about the body, and she was in many ways a younger feminine version of the same theme as himself. In this room was my ruin begun: in this room it should be ended. This salute of his—actually the first she could remember—while it did not disturb her, began to lead her thoughts into new channels of speculation.
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