Her dress, it has just been said, was neatness and simplicity itself. They stank, and she hated how they blocked the sunlight. She was standing before a window, against the background of the rain-burdened April sky. Wood set off at full speed from the Mint, and, hurrying he scarce knew whither (for there was such a continual buzzing in his ears and dancing in his eyes, as almost to take away the power of reflection), he held on at a brisk pace till his strength completely failed him. Every day in the year you will witness such scenes. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. The thought allured him, and therein lay the danger.
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