” She did not wait for Ann Veronica’s reply. Ann Veronica was lying on her bed in a darkling room staring at the ceiling. ‘Perhaps she don’t understand English,’ suggested Roding. Kneebone, I came hither as your guest. 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 began to exercise those lures which were bred in her bone—the bones of all women. She assumed with a kind of mesmeric force all the propositions that Ann Veronica wanted her to define. ” “The truth,” she murmured, with her eyes fixed upon him.
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