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He stood hovering about, a question on his tongue, smitten of admiration much as had been my dog, Partial, at his first sight of Helena. At last he made excuse to step close behind my chair under pretense of finding my napkin. "Enfin, M'sieu?" said he, smiling. "Pas encore, Jean!" I replied. I saw a slow flush on Helena's cheek, but she gave no other sign that she had overheard.
Who do you take me for?" They looked at each other very closely. Razumov's temper was cooled by the impenetrable earnestness of the blue glasses meeting his stare. Peter Ivanovitch turned the handle at last. "You shall know directly," he said, pushing the door open. A low-pitched grating voice was heard within the room. "Enfin."
Gaston responded to the artist; but to the woman no. He had seen a new life, even in its abandon, polite, fresh. It amused him, but he could still turn to the remembrance of Delia without blushing, for he had come to this in the spirit of the idler, not the libertine. Mademoiselle Cerise said to Ian at last: "Enfin, is the man stone? As handsome as a leopard, too! But, it is no matter."
How like her that letter is, egotistical, vain, foolish; no, not foolish narrow, limited, but not foolish; worldly, oh, how worldly! and yet not repulsively so, for there always was in her a certain intensity of feeling that saved her from the commonplace, and gave her an inexpressible charm. Yes, she is a woman who can feel, and she has lived her life and felt it very acutely, very sincerely sincerely?...like a moth caught in a gauze curtain! Well, would that preclude sincerity? Sincerity seems to convey an idea of depth, and she was not very deep, that is quite certain. I never could understand her; a little brain that span rapidly and hummed a pretty humming tune. But no, there was something more in her than that. She often said things that I thought clever, things that I did not forget, things that I should like to put into books. But it was not brain power; it was only intensity of feeling nervous feeling. I don't know...perhaps.... She has lived her life...yes, within certain limits she has lived her life. None of us do more than that. True. I remember the first time I saw her. Sharp, little, and merry a changeable little sprite. I thought she had ugly hands; so she has, and yet I forgot all about her hands before I had known her a month. It is now seven years ago. How time passes! I was very young then. What battles we have had, what quarrels! Still we had good times together. She never lost sight of me, but no intrusion; far too clever for that. I never got the better of her but once...once I did, enfin! She soon made up for lost ground. I wonder what the charm was. I did not think her pretty, I did not think her clever; that I know.... I never knew if she cared for me, never. There were moments when.... Curious, febrile, subtle little creature, oh, infinitely subtle, subtle in everything, in her sensations subtle; I suppose that was her charm, subtleness. I never knew if she cared for me, I never knew if she hated her husband, one never knew her, I never knew how she would receive me. The last time I saw her...that stupid American would take her downstairs, no getting rid of him, and I was hiding behind one of the pillars in the Rue de Rivoli, my hand on the cab door. However, she could not blame me that time and all the stories she used to invent of my indiscretions; I believe she used to get them up for the sake of the excitement. She was awfully silly in some ways, once you got her into a certain line; that marriage, that title, and she used to think of it night and day. I shall never forget when she went into mourning for the Count de Chambord. And her tastes, oh, how bourgeois they were! That salon; the flagrantly modern clock, brass work, eight hundred francs on the Boulevard St Germain, the cabinets, brass work, the rich brown carpet, and the furniture set all round the room geometrically, the great gilt mirror, the ancestral portrait, the arms and crest everywhere, and the stuffy bourgeois sense of comfort; a little grotesque no doubt; the mechanical admiration for all that is about her, for the general atmosphere; the Figaro, that is to say Albert Wolf, l'homme le plus spirituel de Paris, c'est-
"Not to let anyone in England know that I am here?" She paused. Mr. Greyne was silent, wondering. Mademoiselle Verbena drooped her head. "The world is so censorious. It might seem strange that I that monsieur a man young, handsome, fascinating the same ship I have no chaperon enfin " She could get out no more. Her delicacy, her forethought touched Mr. Greyne to tears. "Not a word," he said.
She wore also, and for the first time, the "moccasins for flying feet" and ere she put them on she showed them to me with eager and tender pride, kissing each soft and beaded shoe before she drew it over her slender foot. Around her throat, lying against her heart, nestled her father's faded picture. And as we sped I could hear her murmuring to herself: "Jean Coeur! Jean Coeur! Enfin!
Outre ces crystallisations silicieuses, il y en a, quoique rarement, de quartzeuses, qui ou forment de petites veines de crystal, ou bien des groupes de crystaux quartzeux, ou qui enfin, enduisent les mamelons de silex." Our author then makes a specification of the different varieties; after which he continues, p. 69.
I opened all the drawers and handed him all the keys; I gave them myself, I gave him all. J'etais digne et calme. From the books he took the foreign edition of Herzen, the bound volume of The Sell, four copies of my poem, et enfin tout fa. Then he took my letters and my papers et quelques-unes de mes ebauches historiques, critiques et politiques. All that they carried off.
He kissed the blot, and the thick French ink coming off on his lips was nectar. And he began his letters with "My dear Princess;" then it was "Dearest Princess;" then "My Princess." Then she rallied him on the matter. It came to "Mais enfin j'ai un petit nom comme tout le monde."
Gaston responded to the artist; but to the woman no. He had seen a new life, even in its abandon, polite, fresh. It amused him, but he could still turn to the remembrance of Delia without blushing, for he had come to this in the spirit of the idler, not the libertine. Mademoiselle Cerise said to Ian at last: "Enfin, is the man stone? As handsome as a leopard, too! But, it is no matter."
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