They were always within her means, if ever she chose to purchase them.

It was this man alone to whom she had ever felt drawn--this man of the people, with that suggestion about him of something primitive, untamed, causing her always in his presence that faint, compelling thrill of fear, who stirred her blood as none of the polished men of her own class had ever done.

His kind, strong, ugly face: it moved beside her: its fearless, tender eyes now pleading, now commanding.
He needed her.

She heard his passionate, low voice, as she had heard it in the little garden above Meudon: "Because you won't be there; and without you I can do nothing." What right had this poor, worn-out shadow to stand between them, to the end?
Had love and life no claims, but only weakness?
She had taken all, had given nothing.

It was but reparation she was making.