As it was, she was hurt.
He returned and finished the exercise.
"You've done well this week," he said.
She saw he was flattered by her diary.

It did not repay her entirely.
"You really do blossom out sometimes," he said.

"You ought to write poetry." She lifted her head with joy, then she shook it mistrustfully.
"I don't trust myself," she said.
"You should try!" Again she shook her head.
"Shall we read, or is it too late ?" he asked.
"It is late--but we can read just a little," she pleaded.
She was really getting now the food for her life during the next week.
He made her copy Baudelaire's "Le Balcon".

Then he read it for her.

His voice was soft and caressing, but growing almost brutal.