He pointed to a lattice in one of the college boardinghouses.

“That,” said he, “is a room I have hired, nominally for a study⁠—virtually for a post of observation. There I sit and read for hours together: it is my way⁠—my taste. My book is this garden; its contents are human nature⁠—female human nature. I know you all by heart. Ah! I know you well⁠— St. Pierre, the Parisienne ⁠— cette maîtresse-femme , 194 my cousin Beck herself.”

“It is not right, Monsieur.”