More importantly, she had her wits. “They seem to come to you as naturally as disappointment—to other people. “That sounds so uncouth,” she murmured. So she built a shrine. She could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave. There's one person in the house whom I wouldn't frighten for the world. And then scratched it out and wrote instead, “Gérard”. 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. She could not help devouring him a little with her eyes across the Burger King booth, handsome shoulders visibly solid underneath his ridiculous polo shirt, his eyes all sweetness and light. “I believe that you would find her in some respects curiously altered. And Mr.
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