Still, she had stood up for me; she had said to her father, "Not every one can be in the Institute," evidently meaning, "Why are you torturing this poor young man?
He is bashful and ill at ease.

I feel sorry for him." Sorry--yes; no doubt she felt sorry for me at first.

But then I came out with that impertinence about the twenty-seven copies, and by this time she hates me beyond a doubt.

Yes, she hates me.

It is too painful to think of.
Mademoiselle Charnot will probably remain but a stranger to me, a fugitive apparition in my path of life; yet her anger lies heavy upon me, and the thought of those disdainful lips pursues me.
I had rarely been more thoroughly disgusted with myself, and with all about me.