Once a day, this mother heard the account of the murder of her son; and, each day this account became more horrifying, more replete with detail, and was shouted into her ears with greater cruelty and uproar.
On one occasion, Therese, taken aback with remorse, at the sight of this wan countenance, with great tears slowly coursing down its cheeks, pointed out her aunt to Laurent, beseeching him with a look to hold his tongue.
"Well, what of it?
Leave me alone!" exclaimed the latter in a brutal tone, "you know very well that she cannot give us up.

Am I more happy than she is?
We have her cash, I have no need to constrain myself." The quarrel continued, bitter and piercing, and Camille was killed over again.

Neither Therese nor Laurent dared give way to the thoughts of pity that sometimes came over them, and shut the paralysed woman in her bedroom, when they quarrelled, so as to spare her the story of the crime.

They were afraid of beating one another to death, if they failed to have this semi-corpse between them.

Their pity yielded to cowardice.
They imposed ineffable sufferings on Madame Raquin because they required her presence to protect them against their hallucinations.
All their disputes were alike, and led to the same accusations.