Marguerite was no longer the same woman that I had known.

She avoided everything that might recall to me the life which she had been leading when I first met her.

Never did wife or sister surround husband or brother with such loving care as she had for me.

Her nature was morbidly open to all impressions and accessible to all sentiments.

She had broken equally with her friends and with her ways, with her words and with her extravagances.