“It is a matter of grief to me that you, of all people in the world, should be the one to suspect my disinterestedness, which ...”
No! Perhaps:
“Do you think that literary honesty is less dear to me than ...”
The sentence wouldn’t come. Julius, who was in his night things, felt that he was catching cold; he crumpled up the paper, took up his tooth-glass and went back with it to his dressing-room, at the same time throwing the crumpled letter into the slop-pail.
Just as he was getting into bed, he touched his wife upon the shoulder:
“And what do you think of my book?” he asked.
Marguerite half opened a glazed and lifeless eye. Julius was obliged to repeat his question. Turning partly round, Marguerite looked at him. His eyebrows raised under a network of wrinkles, his lips contracted, Julius was a pitiable object.
“What’s the matter, dear? Do you really think your last book isn’t as good as the others?”
That was no sort of answer. Marguerite was eluding the point.
“I think the others are no better than this. So there!”