Madame Raquin had said:
"We will wait until Therese is one-and-twenty."
And they waited patiently, without excitement, and without a blush.
Camille, whose blood had become impoverished by illness, had remained
a little boy in the eyes of his cousin. He kissed her as he kissed his
mother, by habit, without losing any of his egotistic tranquillity. He
looked upon her as an obliging comrade who helped him to amuse himself,
and who, if occasion offered, prepared him an infusion. When playing
with her, when he held her in his arms, it was as if he had a boy to
deal with. He experienced no thrill, and at these moments the idea
had never occurred to him of planting a warm kiss on her lips as she
struggled with a nervous laugh to free herself.
The girl also seemed to have remained cold and indifferent. At times
her great eyes rested on Camille and fixedly gazed at him with sovereign
calm. On such occasions her lips alone made almost imperceptible little
motions. Nothing could be read on her expressionless countenance, which
an inexorable will always maintained gentle and attentive. Therese
became grave when the conversation turned to her marriage, contenting
herself with approving all that Madame Raquin said by a sign of the
head.
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