" "True," replied the widow, upon whom all the terrible recollections of the day before crowded, "I know it isn't. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside. She swallowed hard. And if I don’t, I go mad. Her girl Clarice was next, dying within a single day, blood leaking from her pretty brown eyes like an image of the Blessed Virgin. “Of course, one lives differently in Paris, but then—Paris is Paris.
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