He knew what a woman is compelled to do in order to win a place on the stage, or to dress herself properly; but he could not endure to be deceived for the sake of love.

Was he the sort of man to commit a crime, to do something dreadful?
That was what she could not decide.

She recalled his mania for handling firearms.

When she used to visit him in the Rue des Martyrs, she always found him in his room, taking an old shot-gun to pieces and cleaning it.

And yet he never went shooting.