Having tortured her mind in that fashion, she slipped from the bed and approaching the dresser, she rested her hands heavily upon an open drawer and glared into the mirror. With piercing eyes she gazed at herself and gradually a smile came to her face and a new light gleamed in her eyes. “Beautifully strange--yes, he was right. I am too young to die. And I am not going to.” With a determination born of a new and greater hope, she threw her head back and her long, lustrous hair, thus shaken loose, unrolled its dark coils down over her shoulders and far below her waistline. Her clothes seemed too tight, so she loosened them, stripping off her outer garment. There was something sirenic about her beauty as she stood there with wild-hanging hair, her breasts heaving with excitement. She commenced to rearrange her disheveled hair, and a smile crept to her lips as she admired the reflection in the glass. She was indeed well aware of her fascinating and dangerous beauty. And well she might be. The well-rounded neck, the soft, graciously curved and perfectly proportioned shoulders and arms, the slight tan of the skin, the great magic eyes and the pretty face with its lofty brow, surmounted by waves of dark hair, gave her the positive stamp of a strange and unique beauty: a type one so seldom finds to admire. It was not artificial, nor was it yet exotic--reality was its only expression. Standing before the glass, she unconsciously made a few gestures and movements which held in them a captivating influence when wielded by one who was naturally so comely. Unconsciously, too, she took inventory of her personal charm. It was her woman’s instinct that told her that all men would be her willing slaves, should such a thing be her desire. But it was not. François was her first lover, and she wanted him to be the only one. Everything was to be for him and him alone. Unfortunately, most women after they secure the man for whom they have angled do not know how to hold their catch. They neglect the very things that first drew the man to them, they forget their art in a feeling of possession and security. And then they wonder why there are so many divorces. Sana, who was but nineteen, was well versed in feminine artfulness and had already mastered all its varied forms and gestures. Her inheritance from her mother, and the refinement and culture she had acquired, gave her both finesse and charm in addition to her amazing loveliness. Facing the glass, she shook her head and said to herself, “To destroy myself? Never! Gypsy blood would not sanction that.” Sana hastily dressed herself and without advising de Rochelle of her movements, left the hotel and sought a friend of hers who lived on 57th Street.