"Well, what of it? Leave me alone!" exclaimed the latter in a brutal
tone, "you know very well that she cannot give us up. Am I more happy
than she is? We have her cash, I have no need to constrain myself."
The quarrel continued, bitter and piercing, and Camille was killed over
again. Neither Therese nor Laurent dared give way to the thoughts of
pity that sometimes came over them, and shut the paralysed woman in
her bedroom, when they quarrelled, so as to spare her the story of the
crime. They were afraid of beating one another to death, if they failed
to have this semi-corpse between them. Their pity yielded to cowardice.
They imposed ineffable sufferings on Madame Raquin because they required
her presence to protect them against their hallucinations.
All their disputes were alike, and led to the same accusations. As soon
as one of them accused the other of having killed this man, there came a
frightful shock.
One night, at dinner, Laurent who sought a pretext for becoming
irritable, found that the water in the decanter was lukewarm. He
declared that tepid water made him feel sick, and that he wanted it
fresh.
"I was unable to procure any ice," Therese answered dryly.
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