New Orleans knew her.          But more: she knew it, and led it on a merry route slipping through the waters of time and treasure, lakes of it, music and delicate dreams so delicately, exquisitely wrought that they must crumble as she departed.          Depart she did.          She could not stay.          Violet's sister left the gated perfumed city ebony freedmen dressed in orange satin who sang sad songs in the moonlit streets under the smoke of spicy cooking crayfish and clams.          That they must crumble as she departed.          Depart she did.          Someone should have told her.          Why did no 1 tell her?          It would have done no good, served no purpose, but all the same someone should have told her.          And in that way gone with her.          Not left her alone.          No 1 should be left alone that way, not like that.          No 1.