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. “She contrives somehow to strike the personal note in an amazing manner. "I don't know his name. I'm ready to bear it all. She dared not say the word aloud, not even to herself. As the body was borne to the house in the arms of the farming-men, Mr. ‘I know,’ said Prudence Sindlesham, sympathy in her tone. Flesh and blood, vivid, alluring; she was no longer the symbol, therefore she had become, as in the twinkling of an eye, an utter stranger.
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