She could not resist enduing persons she met with the noble attributes of the fictional characters. One or two landladies refused her with an air of conscious virtue that she found hard to explain. It was the day I borrowed a pencil; the day we first spoke to one another. Some friends who saw us dining together persist in alluding to her as Miss Annabel Pellissier. “Of course, one lives differently in Paris, but then—Paris is Paris. That he was hot and breathless was of no matter; in that moment he would have faced a dozen Samsons. The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice.
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