At times, he imagined a streak of blood was running down his chest, and would bespatter his white waistcoat with crimson.
Madame Raquin was inwardly grateful to the newly married couple for their gravity.

Noisy joy would have wounded the poor mother.

In her mind, her son was there, invisible, handing Therese over to Laurent.
Grivet had other ideas.

He considered the wedding party sad, and wanted to enliven it, notwithstanding the looks of Michaud and Olivier which riveted him to his chair each time he wished to get up and say something silly.

Nevertheless, he managed to rise once and propose a toast.
"I drink to the offspring of monsieur and madame," quoth he in a sprightly tone.
It was necessary to touch glasses.