What was the good of playing?
Who would hear her?
Since she could never, in a velvet gown with short sleeves, striking with her light fingers the ivory keys of an Erard at a concert, feel the murmur of ecstasy envelop her like a breeze, it was not worth while boring herself with practicing.

Her drawing cardboard and her embroidery she left in the cupboard.

What was the good?
What was the good?
Sewing irritated her.

"I have read everything," she said to herself.

And she sat there making the tongs red-hot, or looked at the rain falling.
How sad she was on Sundays when vespers sounded! She listened with dull attention to each stroke of the cracked bell.