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smile, and, as it seems to me, he surveys her body. How does he dare to
think of her, to think of the possibility of a romance with her? And how
can she, seeing this, tolerate him? Not only does she tolerate him, but
she seems pleased. I even see that she puts herself to trouble on his
account. And in my soul there rises such a hatred for her that each of
her words, each gesture, disgusts me. She notices it, she knows not what
to do, and how assume an air of indifferent animation? Ah! I suffer!
That makes her gay, she is content. And my hatred increases tenfold, but
I do not dare to give it free force, because at the bottom of my soul
I know that there are no real reasons for it, and I remain in my seat,
feigning indifference, and exaggerating my attention and courtesy to
HIM.
"
Then I get angry with myself. I desire to leave the room, to leave them
alone, and I do, in fact, go out; but scarcely am I outside when I am
invaded by a fear of what is taking place within my absence. I go in
again, inventing some pretext. Or sometimes I do not go in; I remain
near the door, and listen. How can she humiliate herself and humiliate
me by placing me in this cowardly situation of suspicion and espionage?
Oh, abomination! Oh, the wicked animal! And he too, what does he think
of you? But he is like all men. He is what I was before my marriage. It
gives him pleasure. He even smiles when he looks at me, as much as to
say: 'What have you to do with this? It is my turn now.'
"This feeling is horrible. Its burn is unendurable. To entertain this
feeling toward any one, to once suspect a man of lusting after my wife,
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