“Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. “No!” Michelle said too eagerly. He did not leave much of an 17 impression. The blue jowl, the fat-lidded eyes—now merry, now alert, now tungsten hard—the bullet head, the pudgy fingers and the square-toed shoes were all in conformation with the doctor's olden mental picture. He forgot for the moment his own self-pity, the egotism of his own passionate love. Marvel, therefore, remained on his probation. “I do not lay claim,” he continued, “to any remarkable amount of insight, but it is possible, is it not, that I have stumbled upon your present cause of distress.
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