She always reminded him of a painted perfume-bottle with a crack in it; but he had grown to have a kindly feeling for her, based on the fact of her owing conjugal allegiance to Urbain de Bellegarde.
He pitied M.de Bellegarde's wife, especially since she was a silly, thirstily-smiling little brunette, with a suggestion of an unregulated heart.

The small marquise sometimes looked at him with an intensity too marked not to be innocent, for coquetry is more finely shaded.
She apparently wanted to ask him something or tell him something; he wondered what it was.

But he was shy of giving her an opportunity, because, if her communication bore upon the aridity of her matrimonial lot, he was at a loss to see how he could help her.

He had a fancy, however, of her coming up to him some day and saying (after looking around behind her) with a little passionate hiss, "I know you detest my husband; let me have the pleasure of assuring you for once that you are right.

Pity a poor woman who is married to a clock-image in papier-mache!" Possessing, however, in default of a competent knowledge of the principles of etiquette, a very downright sense of the "meanness" of certain actions, it seemed to him to belong to his position to keep on his guard; he was not going to put it into the power of these people to say that in their house he had done anything unpleasant.