She could even think of what had happened. One only. They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. It was in her eyes—the big thing that comes but once. She would not look at him, would not think of him; when her mind wavered, then she muttered to herself in the darkness so as to keep hold of her generalizations. ‘And, if this was not enough,’ went on the lady furiously, ‘you dare to say I am French. With delicate touch he rescued all that was possible of them, and made a careful little parcel. He returned, blue towel in hand. ” She gave herself permission now to look at this squarely.
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