She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. If you attempt to play the traitor, you will do so at the hazard of your life. It’s the feinting tricks you have to watch for. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool. 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.
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