Some of her best stories ('The Cost of Living', 'The Ice Wagon Going Down the Street', 'Bernadette'), a few very entertaining but slighter pieces ('The Moabitess', a very Katherine Mansfield-like story about an impoverished spinster stranded for life on the Riviera -- incidentally one of Gallant's favourite haunts, at least in her fiction), a few weaker stories (at least to my taste: 'Acceptance of Their Ways', 'Sunday Afternoon'), and one very long piece, designated as 'a short novel' in the table of contents: Its Image on the Mirror.
At a hundred pages this tale is indeed at least a novella. But although it's been called 'an unqualified success' by some reviewers, I tend to agree with the New York Times reviewer who wrote, on this collection's first appearance, that 'the elements never quite coalesce, never seem more than preliminary notes for a novel which was never written'. The narrative of this novella is so condensed, presented in such an elliptical way, that I just couldn't get into it. In much of her fiction, Gallant always seems to be at one remove from her characters, maintaining a certain kind of intellectual distance that sometimes makes it hard for the reader to identify with any of them or see them other than as insects crawling around under Gallant's lens. That's usually offset by her wit and intelligence, but here that aloofness seems to get the better of her, or get the better of the narrative. At least it did for me.