She knew her Jean Jacques.

That is, she thought she knew her Jean Jacques after living with him for over thirteen years; but hers was a very common mistake.

It is not time which gives revelation, or which turns a character inside out, and exposes a new and amazing, maybe revolting side to it.

She had never really seen Jean Jacques, and he had never really seen himself, as he was, but only as circumstances made him seem to be.

What he had showed of his nature all these forty odd years was only the ferment of a more or less shallow life, in spite of its many interests: but here now at last was life, with the crust broken over a deep well of experience and tragedy.
She knew as little what he would do in such a case as he himself knew beforehand.