insignificant. This she knew; it wounded her self-respect, and
therefore she went out as little as possible, preferring to stay at
home, where she was simple, natural and taciturn. This silence did not
arise from slowness of thought, but from the chatter of the others.
As her father, mother, and brother were all exuberant talkers, this
little person by a sort of reaction, withdrew into herself, where she
could talk freely.

She was fair, tall, and boyishly slender, with pretty hair, the locks
always straying over her cheeks. Her mouth was rather large and
serious, the lower lip full at the corners, her eyes large, calm and
vague, with fine well-marked eyebrows. She had a graceful chin, a
pretty throat, an undeveloped figure, no hips; her hands were large
and a little red, with prominent veins. Anything would make her blush,
and her girlish charm was all in the forehead and the chin. Her eyes
were always asking and dreaming, but said little.

Her father's preference was for her, just as her mother was drawn
towards the son by natural affinity. Without thinking much about it,
Clerambault had always monopolised his daughter, surrounding her from
childhood with his absorbing affection. She had been partly educated
by him, and with the almost offensive simplicity of the artist mind,
he had taken her for the confidante of his inner life. This was
brought about by his overflowing self-consciousness, and the little
response that he found in his wife, a good creature, who, as the
saying is, sat at his feet, in fact stayed there permanently,
answering yes to all that he said, admiring him blindly, without
understanding him, or feeling the lack; the essential to her was not
her husband's thought but himself, his welfare, his comfort, his food,
his clothing, his health. Honest Clerambault in the gratitude of his