That woman was this sturdy, powerful man's taint, the secret sore which would perhaps end by eating him away and destroying him.

But it was the frightful drama in which the Baroness, Camille and Gerard were concerned that flitted by most visibly across the faces of all three of them: that hateful rivalry of mother and daughter, contending for the man they loved.

And, meantime, the silver-gilt blades of the dessert-knives were delicately peeling choice fruit.

And there were bunches of golden grapes looking beautifully fresh, and a procession of sweetmeats, little cakes, an infinity of dainties, over which the most satiated appetites lingered complacently.
Then, just as the finger-glasses were being served, a footman came and bent over the Baroness, who answered in an undertone, "Well, show him into the _salon_, I will join him there." And aloud to the others she added: "It's Monsieur l'Abbe Froment, who has called and asks most particularly to see me.

He won't be in our way; I think that almost all of you know him.