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. It was as if she had grown right past her father into something older and of infinitely wider outlook, as if he had always been unsuspectedly a flattened figure, and now she had discovered him from the other side. Her loneliness was consuming, Lucia. There were no mourners. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. “I too am asked.
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