Then he would raise his head again and go on tiptoe to look at her. “Good God! she will be in a fever by tomorrow morning; perhaps it’s begun already! She must have caught cold. She is not accustomed to this awful climate, and then a third-class carriage, the storm, the rain, and she has such a thin little pelisse, no wrap at all.⁠ ⁠… And to leave her like this, to abandon her in her helplessness! Her bag, too, her bag⁠—what a tiny, light thing, all crumpled up, scarcely weighs ten pounds! Poor thing, how worn out she is, how much she’s been through! She is proud, that’s why she won’t complain. But she is irritable, very irritable. It’s illness; an angel will grow irritable in illness. What a dry forehead, it must be hot⁠—how dark she is under the eyes, and⁠ ⁠… and yet how beautiful the oval of her face is and her rich hair, how⁠ ⁠…”