In the battle you are alone, but the hand to heal the wounds may be another's.

You are a philosopher--well, what I speak is true, isn't it ?" Virginie had said the one thing which could have stayed the tide of Jean Jacques' pessimism and broken his cloud of gloom.

She appealed to him in the tune of an old song.

The years and the curses of years had not dispelled the illusion that he was a philosopher.

He stopped with his hand on the door.
"That's so, without doubt that's so," he said.