“So you still think of me as husband, even though we have long since tired of each other. Without hindrance—present occupation. Wood, leaping from the bed. “We are only in the dawn of the Age of Friendship,” he said, “when interest, I suppose, will take the place of passions. ‘And that Suzanne, the sister of my cousin the vicomte, must choose between Monsieur Charvill and her brother. And a ballot-box—” Her face assumed an expression of intellectual conflict. She was fiercely and bitterly jealous. Irregularly, in a quite inglorious and unromantic way, you know, I am a vicious man.
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