Each of the arts has its own particular leprosy, its mortal ignominy that eats its face away.

Painting has the family group, music the ballad, literature the criticism, and architecture the architect.
The prisoners were walking around the platform, one after another, silent, with folded arms, and in the beautiful order we had the opportunity to admire at Fontevrault.

They were the patients of the hospital ward taking the air.
Tottering along with the file was one who lifted his feet higher than the rest and clung to the coat of the man ahead of him.

He was blind.
Poor, miserable wretch! God prevents him from seeing and his fellow-men forbid him to speak! The following day, when the tide had again receded from the beach, we left the Mount under a broiling sun which heated the hood of the carriage and made the horses sweat.

They only walked; the harness creaked and the wheels sank deep into the sand.