” His walk became a jovial saunter. It had a tiny flaw, most bizarre. Every now and then her general presence became radiantly dazzling in his eyes; she would appear in the street coming toward him, a surprise, so fine and smiling and welcoming was she, so expanded and illuminated and living, in contrast with his mere expectation. But this was a vicomte’s sister. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. I—In fact, I dislike him extremely. It could not be she who had done this.
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