‘Where was I? Oh yes. The teacher droned on and on about the mournful funerary love of Romeo and Juliet, a tale she had long since tired of. “She must go her own way. She was correct, and when I went directly to the street she had named, there you were, walking into the Butcher Shop. She had suddenly become as the jewels of the Madonna, as the idol's eye, infinitely beyond his reach, sacred. ‘Must be still downstairs. I did what I could to comfort her but she died in terrible pain. He would pursue that little pastime on some other occasion. “Let us walk across the Park at least,” he said to Ann Veronica. 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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