_Elle me soupconnera toute sa vie_--me, me, the poet, the thinker, the man whom she has worshipped for twenty-two years!" "It will never enter her head." "It will," he whispered with profound conviction.

"We've talked of it several times in Petersburg, in Lent, before we came away, when we were both afraid....

_Elle me soupconnera toute sa vie..._ and how can I disabuse her?
It won't sound likely.

And in this wretched town who'd believe it, _c'est invraisemblable....

Et puis les femmes,_ she will be pleased.