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. “What is the exact force of a motif?” she asked at random. ‘I thought—I thought I saw my—my husband. I am Lucilla Froxfield, you must know. I went at last when I had barely a shilling in my purse to a dramatic agent. A snarl contorted his features, and he marched up to it, laying his pistol down on the marquetry table so that his hands were free to grab the picture off the wall. ” “The truth!” There was a brief but intense silence.
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