He was a Frenchman, a man of culture and of noble birth; he might stand above the common superstition, he might listen, discern, defend.

But, alas, he was so old as to be bed-ridden and almost childish.

It was improbable, nay, it was most unlikely, that he could be induced to interfere.
All these thoughts Anne drove out of his head by begging him, in moving terms of self-reproach, to forgive her her weakness.

She had regained her composure as abruptly, if not as completely, as she had lost it; and would have had him believe that the passion he had witnessed was less deep than it seemed, and rather a womanish need of tears than a proof of suffering.

A minute later she was quietly preparing the evening meal, while he, with a sick heart, raised the shutters and lighted the lamp.
As he looked up from the latter task, he found her eyes fixed upon him, with a peculiar intentness: and for a while afterwards he remarked that she wore an absent air.