Her eyes were insane with rage, crusted with yellow and green, only beginning to heal from her long sojourn underground. At the door to the kitchen, he called out, ‘Pottiswick!’ The old man came out, shoving his chin in the air and glaring. Her time and effort was justly rewarded, because the hard cold facts she knew about neighborhood intrigues were better than fictional soap operas. 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. I’m not discussing Shakespeare. His stories had enchanted her, even if in some deep corner of her heart she guessed they were not entirely true.
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