and with that, such ordinariness! What a low-bred, irritable vanity! What an abject craving to _faire du bruit autour de son nom,_ without noticing that _son nom...._ Oh, it's a caricature! 'Surely,' I cried to him, 'you don't want to offer yourself just as you are as a substitute for Christ ?' _Il rit.
Il rit beaucoup.

Il rit trop._ He has a strange smile.

His mother had not a smile like that.

_Il rit toujours._" Silence followed again.
"They are cunning; they were acting in collusion on Sunday," he blurted out suddenly....
"Oh, not a doubt of it," I cried, pricking up my ears.

"It was a got-up thing and it was too transparent, and so badly acted." "I don't mean that.