Here Roncherolle paused and heaved a profound sigh. Violette looked up at him and said:
"What are you thinking about, monsieur, that makes you sigh so? You mustn't think of melancholy things when you are sick."
"I am thinking, my dear child, that I might have with me—my own daughter,—who, however, I am sure, would take no better care of me than you do."
"Your daughter! what, monsieur, you have a daughter, and she is not with you when you are ill and suffering!"
"If she is not with me, it is not her fault,—it is mine."
"Ah! then it is you who have sent her away, and she is not in Paris, of course?"
"No, she is not in Paris."
"Why don't you write for her to come, to join you?"
"I don't want to disturb her."
"How old is your daughter?"