He read in her heart that she bore the yoke with pride, and yet the yoke galled her.
She paints Buzot with complacency, and as the ideal of domestic happiness.

"Sensible, ardent, melancholy," she writes, "a passionate admirer of nature, he seems born to give and share happiness.

This man would forget the universe in the sweetness of private virtues.

Capable of sublime impulses and unvarying affections, the vulgar, who like to depreciate what it cannot equal, accuse him of being a dreamer.

Of sweet countenance, elegant figure, there is always in his attire that care, neatness, and propriety, which announce respect of self as well as of others.