Roger, noisy, very gay, laughing, and exciting his dog, was himself like a big, happy dog. Annette followed silently, at a few paces. She was thinking:
"Here! . . . No, yonder at the turning. . . ."
She was watching Roger. She was listening to the forest. How different all would be, after she had spoken! . . . The turn was passed. She had not spoken. . . . She said: "Roger . . ." in an uncertain, trembling voice, almost a whisper. . . . He did not hear it, he noticed nothing. Stooping down in front of her, he gathered some violets, and he talked, talked. . . . She repeated: "Roger!" this time in such an accent of distress that he turned around, startled. At once he saw the pallor of her gravely serious face; he came to her. . . . He was afraid already. She said:
"Roger, we must separate."
His features expressed stupefaction and dismay. He stammered:
"What's that you say? What's that you say?"
Avoiding his glance, she repeated firmly:
"We must separate, Roger; it is sad, but we must. I have come to see that it is impossible, impossible for me to be your wife. . . ."
She wanted to go on, but he prevented her.
"No, no, that's not true! . . . Be still! Be still! You are mad! . . ."