She turned off the light and approached the window. The bliss had lasted one hundred and forty years, far more than an entire mortal lifetime. 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. Pure luck! If the boy had grown a moustache or a beard, a needle in the haystack would have been soft work. "See the devil!—not I," cried Wood impatiently.
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