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generally in accord. And furthermore I see that, without any necessity
therefor, she is becoming irritated. I think that she has a nervous
attack, or else that the subject of conversation is really disagreeable
to her. We talk of something else, and that begins again. Again she
torments me, and becomes irritated. I am astonished and look for a
reason. Why? For what? She keeps silence, answers me with monosyllables,
evidently making allusions to something. I begin to divine that the
reason of all this is that I have taken a few walks in the garden with
her cousin, to whom I did not give even a thought. I begin to
divine, but I cannot say so. If I say so, I confirm her suspicions. I
interrogate her, I question her. She does not answer, but she sees that
I understand, and that confirms her suspicions.
"
"
"
'What is the matter with you?' I ask.
'Nothing, I am as well as usual,' she answers.
And at the same time, like a crazy woman, she gives utterance to the
silliest remarks, to the most inexplicable explosions of spite.
"Sometimes I am patient, but at other times I break out with anger. Then
her own irritation is launched forth in a flood of insults, in charges
of imaginary crimes and all carried to the highest degree by sobs,
tears, and retreats through the house to the most improbable spots. I
go to look for her. I am ashamed before people, before the children, but
there is nothing to be done. She is in a condition where I feel that she
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