Dizzily, she grabbed at the mantel for support and, resting her head on her hands, paid no heed to a betraying sound behind her—until an unexpected arm encircled her. The agony on the sands now ceased to puzzle her. ‘Perhaps I could indeed rescue you if only you would confide in me. You mustn't go dressing up Tom, Dick, and Harry in Henry Esmond's ruffles. 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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