All of this with a hundred exclamations and little comments and questions that required no answers, and broken sentences of pity, of raillery, of pleasure, that had no beginning and no ending as grammatical constructions.
Purr, purr, purr.
Finally she rubbed his shoes till they shone, and flecked the dust from his clothes,—to complete which operation it was necessary for him to get up.
A slight noise on the landing caused him to start nervously.
He was still thinking of one thing,—of a man lying cold and stiff at the Hôtel Dieu.
Both carefully avoided the subject uppermost in either mind,—Henri Lerouge and his sister.
First, she was astonished that he had not questioned her; next, she sought to escape questioning altogether. She was secretive by nature. And now, like a contrite and wretched woman conscious of her share of responsibility for a great wrong, she could only humble herself before him and await his will.
"Now, Monsieur Jean," she concluded, "we will eat. Come! You must be hungry,—come! À table, monsieur!"
"Au contraire, I feel as if I could never eat again," he said, desperately.
"What nonsense! Come, monsieur,—sit down here and eat something! You will feel better at once."