She did not like Baudelaire, on the whole--nor Verlaine.
"Behold her singing in the field Yon solitary highland lass." That nourished her heart.

So did "Fair Ines".

And-- "It was a beauteous evening, calm and pure, And breathing holy quiet like a nun." These were like herself.

And there was he, saying in his throat bitterly: "_Tu te rappelleras la beaute des caresses_." The poem was finished; he took the bread out of the oven, arranging the burnt loaves at the bottom of the panchion, the good ones at the top.
The desiccated loaf remained swathed up in the scullery.
"Mater needn't know till morning," he said.

"It won't upset her so much then as at night." Miriam looked in the bookcase, saw what postcards and letters he had received, saw what books were there.