As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb. “Sit down,” he said, and perused—“perused” is the word for it—for some moments. 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 had fled back to Florence quite intent on slitting the new bride’s throat. ’ He smiled down at her.
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