She would think about those comments sometimes when she was introduced to strangers, saw them judging her. Judging her, presumably, by the kind of crap they’d seen and read. "Mrs. Webster was thoroughly convincing, showing all the naive rage of an offended bourgeoise"— Leningrad Free Press . "She recited her grievances to the camera like a cavalier’s mistress demanding vengeance for an insult"— Paris-Despatch . "Ugly, histrionic, gratingly insistent, a testament that was ultimately far too unpleasant to be disbelieved"— The Guardian . She had read that last one ten or twelve times, and had even considered calling up the snide little creep who’d written it—but what the hell. The tape had worked, that was enough. And it was nothing compared to what they said about the poor wretched bastards who used to run Vienna.