I think of Martine in the midst of other people, charming us and making us feel welcome—for so often we were her guests, and never has a more gracious hostess lived. But my favorite memory may be of a time when we were alone. She showed me the dummy of Venus d’ailleurs, her book of portraits of artists who came to Paris from elsewhere, accumulated over a period of nearly half a century. I loved it, and I told her I thought it might be her best book. Nothing could ever disturb her calm and genuine modesty, but her slight smile suggested that perhaps she agreed with me.
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