knew‚ÅÝ‚Äîwonderful, haunting Paris: the Paris of Clovis, and St. ¬ÝLouis; of Louis the Great, and Napoleon III ; of Balzac, and her own Dumas. She tasted the mud and comfort of thick old London, and the while wept with Jeremiah and sang with Deborah, Semiramis, and Atala. Mary of Scotland and Joan of Arc held her dark hands in theirs, and Kings lifted up their sceptres.
She walked on worlds, and worlds of worlds, and heard there in her little room the tread of armies, the paeans of victory, the breaking of hearts, and the music of the spheres.
Mrs. ¬ÝVanderpool watched her a while.
“Zora,” she presently broke into the girl’s absorption, “how would you like to be Ambassador to France?”