Your conscience must reproach you." Maurice brusquely interrupted this tirade, laughing in advance at what he was about to say.
"My conscience?
Oh, tender and artless Violette; Oh, modest wood-flower! Conscience, my poor friend, is like a Suede glove, you can wear it soiled.

Adieu! We will talk of this another day, when Mademoiselle Irma is not waiting for me." Amedee walked on alone, shivering in the mist, weary and sad, to the Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs.
No! it could not be true.

There must be another love than that known to these brutes.

There were other women besides the light creatures they had spoken of.

His thoughts reverted to the companion of his childhood, to the pretty little Maria, and again he sees her sewing near the family lamp, and talking with him without raising her eyes, while he admires her beautiful, drooping lashes.