Seizing her hand he covered it with kisses. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. “Monsieur would dine! It was very good! And Madame, of course?” with a low bow. We can’t afford to turn our women, our Madonnas, our Saint Catherines, our Mona Lisas, our goddesses and angels and fairy princesses, into a sort of man. 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. Into one of these he waded and rolled and rolled, despite her commands. Very well, I give up. On that night, I surrendered myself to Jonathan Wild, and became— what I am.
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