She thought of her father in the garden, and of her aunt with her Patience, as she had seen them—how many ages was it ago? Just one day intervened. Loving was self-forgetfulness, pure delighting in another human being. When I am leading a true life, a pure and simple life free of all stimulants and excitements, I think—I think— oh! with pellucid clearness; but if I so much as take a mouthful of meat—or anything—the mirror is all blurred. ‘She? Sa femme? That is the game then? That she could dare to take my place, that salope.
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