They are afraid of each other.
Here, also, on the margin of passion, is Monsieur Joseph Boneas, very compassionable, in spite of his intellectual superiority.

Between the turned-down brim of his hat and his swollen white kerchief,--thick as a towel,--a mournful yellow face is stuck.
I pity these questing solitaries who are looking for themselves! I feel compassion to see those fruitless shadows hovering there, wavering like ghosts, these poor wayfarers, divided and incomplete.
Where am I?
Facing the workmen's flats, whose countless windows stand sharply out in their huge flat background.

It is there that Marie Tusson lives, whose father, a clerk at Messrs.

Gozlan's, like myself, is manager of the property.

I steered to this place instinctively, without confessing it to myself, brushing people and things without mingling with them.
Marie is my cousin, and yet I hardly ever see her.