“Your teeth are chattering! I’ll make you some hot chocolate!” Cathy cried. The policeman raised his voice, slightly agitated. “Sit down,” he said, and perused—“perused” is the word for it—for some moments. 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. In a few seconds, the shutter flew open,—then the window,—and they were in the room. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. The girl regarded him with the face of a Sphinx.
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