The germ, too, of another defect was springing up within her--a jealousy instinctive, irrational, almost wicked.

She could not see a new plaything in Florent's hands without sulking immediately.

She could not bear to see her brother embrace her father without casting herself between them, nor could she see him amuse himself with other comrades.
Had Napoleon Chapron been interested in the study of character as deeply as he was in his cotton and his sugarcane, he would have perceived, with affright, the early traces of a sinful nature.

But, on that point, like his son, he was one of those trustful men who did not judge when they loved.

Moreover, Lydia and Florent, to his wounded sensibility of a demi-pariah, formed the only pleasant corner in his life--were the fresh and youthful comforters of his widowerhood and of his misanthropy.