I don’t want to tear at you with hot, rough hands. However, confession of a fault makes half amends for it. It was a bogus affair altogether, kept by some blackguard or other of an Englishman. She wanted to think of him as her beloved person, to be near him and watch him, to have him going about, doing this and that, saying this and that, unconscious of her, while she too remained unconscious of herself. He was standing by, rating her ladyship,—who can scarcely stir from the sofa,—while I was packing up her jewels in the case, and I observed that she tried to hide a small casket from him.
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