It gave me an even better idea of the woman my aunt had been than even the panic of her solicitor.

The thing went as smoothly as the disappearance of a caravan of gypsies, camped for the night on a heath beside gorse bushes.

We went to the ball that night as if from a household that had its roots deep in the solid rock, and in the morning we had disappeared.
The ball itself was a finishing touch--the finishing touch of my sister's affairs and the end of my patience.

I spent an interminable night, one of those nights that never end and that remain quivering and raw in the memory.

I seemed to be in a blaze of light, watching, through a shifting screen of shimmering dresses--her and the Duc de Mersch.