To Sister Sofia she was Petrograd with cafes, novels by such writers as Verbitzkaia and our own Jack London, the cinematograph, and the Islands on a fine evening in May.

To the student like a white fish she was a platform for frantic speeches, incipient revolutions, little untidy hysterical meetings in a dirty room in a back street, newspapers, the incapacities of the Douma, the robberies and villainies of the Government.

To Anna Petrovna she was comfortable, unspeculative, friendly "home." To Nikitin she was the face of one woman upon whose eyes his own were always fixed.

To Marie Ivanovna she was a flaming glorious wonder, mystical, transplendent, revealed in every blade of grass, every flash of sun across the sky, every line of the road, the top of every hill.
And to Trenchard and myself?
For Trenchard she had, perhaps, taken to herself some part of his beloved country.

He has told me--and I will witness in myself to the truth of this--that he never in his life felt more burningly his love for England than at this first moment of his consciousness of Russia.