CHAPTER XVII. ” He took his place by her side, and they talked lightly of London, the shops and people. 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 put her clothes back on, 118 lipstick smeared all over her face. After all, his was a pleasant face, and a pleasant voice, and very likely Annabel had behaved badly. They even talked about friendship. ’ ‘We are not all of us so empty-headed, Melusine,’ pleaded Miss Froxfield. The doctor nodded. There were no mourners.
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