Her lips are trembling on her rows of sparkling teeth; the whole breadth of her bosom heaves quickly.
I have sunk again into the armchair.

Memories flow again, while the sick woman's breathing is longer drawn, and her stillness becomes more and more inexorable.

Things she used to say return to my lips.

Then my eyes are raised, and look for Marie, and turn upon her.
* * * * * * She has leaned against the wall, and remains so--overcome.

She invests the corner where she stands with something like profane and sumptuous beauty.