" "I am here in Canton," she replied, simply. But there was a face pressed to the glass. Without a single ornament about her neck, or hair, wearing the plainest of black gowns, out of which her shoulders shone gleaming white, she was easily the most noticeable and the most distinguished-looking woman in the room. But whatever she may have said was lost as Gerald pinned her to the wall, the point of the sword at her throat. She confronted him with his own double-standard. “I want to find an address. He was always forgetting that his tummy was fifty-four years old. ” Anna promptly alighted with the letter in her hand. 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. “A silly little priestess who knew nothing of life at all until she came to you. Ramage did not know. Nigel Ennison was he. I wonder what it was. Was that it? Had she clothed this unhappy young man with glamour? Or was it because he was so alone? She could not get through the husks to the kernel of what really actuated her.
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