claude monet paintings

not that he would have injured a hair of my head, if it had been fully
in his power to do so. Both by nature and principle, he was superior
to the mean gratification of vengeance: he had forgiven me for
saying I scorned him and his love, but he had not forgotten the words;
and as long as he and I lived he never would forget them. I saw by his
look, when he turned to me, that they were always written on the air
between me and him; whenever I spoke, they sounded in my voice to
his ear, and their echo toned every answer he gave me.
He did not abstain from conversing with me: he even called me as
usual each morning to join him at his desk; and I fear the corrupt man
within him had a pleasure unimparted to, and unshared by, the pure
Christian, in evincing with what skill he could, while acting and
speaking apparently just as usual, extract from every deed and every
phrase the spirit of interest and approval which had formerly
communicated a certain austere charm to his language and manner. To
me, he was in reality become no longer flesh, but marble; his eye
was a cold, bright, blue gem; his tongue a speaking instrument-
nothing more.