Its longing has a sharper edge; there stir in it the pangs of discontent; and the mind and body yearn for solace.

It is a dangerous time, even more dangerous than spring for those who have passed the days of youth.
It had proved dangerous to Carmen Barbille.

The melancholy of the gorgeously tinted trees, the flights of the birds to the south, the smell of the fallow field, the wind with the touch of the coming rains--these had given to a growing discontent with her monotonous life the desire born of self-pity.

In spite of all she could do she was turning to the life she had left behind in Cadiz long ago.
It seemed to her that Jean Jacques had ceased to care for the charms which once he had so proudly proclaimed.

There was in her the strain of the religion of Epicurus.