Her skin was burning, the blood throbbing in short irregular leaps.
"You are certainly ill," he murmured.

"You must take something to quiet you.

I will write you a prescription." And as he wrote, stooping over the paper, a low sound of choked sighs, smothered, quick breathing and suppressed sobs made him suddenly look round at her.

She was weeping, her hands covering her face.
Roland, quite distracted, asked her: "Louise, Louise, what is the mater with you?
What on earth ails you ?" She did not answer, but seemed racked by some deep and dreadful grief.
Her husband tried to take her hands from her face, but she resisted him, repeating: "No, no, no." He appealed to his son.
"But what is the matter with her?
I never saw her like this." "It is nothing," said Pierre, "she is a little hysterical." And he felt as if it were a comfort to him to see her suffering thus, as if this anguish mitigated his resentment and diminished his mother's load of opprobrium.

He looked at her as a judge satisfied with his day's work.
Suddenly she rose, rushed to the door with such a swift impulse that it was impossible to forestall or to stop her, and ran off to lock herself into her room.
Roland and the doctor were left face to face.
"Can you make head or tail of it ?" said the father.
"Oh, yes," said the other.