Here would be a woman perfectly unrecognizable, strong, ruthless but just. Even in her hatred, she began to realize that Sebastian’s intelligence was much greater than Gianfrancesco’s. I did not care—no woman really cares—to play the beggar maid to your King Cophetua. Each morning his inquiry was properly answered: the patient was steadily improving, but none could say when he would be strong enough to proceed upon his journey. She sank upon her knees and unbuttoned his coat. ‘Idiot!’ ‘Enough, now! Softly, you little termagant,’ he ordered, seizing her wrists to hold her off. 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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