CHAPTER XXVII His idea, cleverly planned, was to shatter her resistance, to confound her suddenly by striking her mind with words which would rob her coherent thought. “Perhaps one talks nonsense about a woman’s instinct,” she said. She crawled into her small bed, dizzy with the thoughts of him, of kissing him. It could not be a legal marriage. Directly in range stood the strange young man, although he was at the far side of the loft. 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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