We were, quite simply as men, the worst-suited in the world.

He had not a trick nor a habit that did not get on my nerves; he was intelligent only in those things that I despised a man for knowing.

This would have been well enough had he not persisted in talking about matters of art and literature, of which, of course, he knew nothing.

He did it, I believe, to please his wife and myself.

I despised him for many things and yet, in my heart, I knew that he had much that I had not.