She judged him with severity in all his actions, all his attitudes, from the moment when he had conquered her by sheer strength in the monastery of Praglia to the moment when their lips had met near the basin of the Acqua Barbarena.
He had shown himself incapable of loving, incapable of decisive action, irresolute, effeminate in the instability of his mind.

Yes, he had been effeminate until the last; effeminate, unfit to form any virile judgment of his own hysterical mysticism.

In this judgment there was perhaps an imperfect sincerity, an excess of bitterness, a futile act of rebellion against this all-powerful, invincible love.
If he had actually become a monk, Jeanne foresaw that he would regret it.

He was too sensual.

The first period of sorrow and fervour passed, his sensuality would reawaken, and lead him to rebel against a faith that appeals rather to the sentiments and habits of youth than to the intellect.