She produced a handkerchief, and with one sweep of this and a simultaneous gulp had abolished her fit of weeping. Because Leonardo, he made me see that I can be someone. 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.
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