Bir gün, parfümünü satın almak için dükkânına gelen genç bir ressam olan Luc, Sophie ile tanıştı. “My dear man,” she exclaimed, “wasn’t that a foregone conclusion?” “You treat the matter lightly,” he continued. On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had beaten out his wife's brains. ” She was frightened—his anger always did frighten her—and in her resolve to conceal her fright she carried a queen-like dignity to what she felt even at the time was a preposterous pitch. “The plain common-sense of the case,” he said, “is that we can’t possibly be lovers in the ordinary sense. Was he your natural father? Did you know him?” “No, I didn’t. Even the stars were strangers. Wary they might be.
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