she said sneeringly. “He’s perfectly satisfied.”
“What are we all miserable for, when everything might be so happy?”
“Only not he. Don’t I know him, the falsity in which he’s utterly steeped?... Could one, with any feeling, live as he is living with me? He understands nothing, and feels nothing. Could a man of any feeling live in the same house with his unfaithful wife? Could he talk to her, call her ’my dear’?”
And again she could not help mimicking him: “’Anna, ma chere; Anna, dear’!”
“He’s not a man, not a human being — he’s a doll! No one knows him; but I know him. Oh, if I’d been in his place, I’d