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90 of the battle in which I am engaged, of the blows I give and take, of the schemes I invent, and the anxieties that I endure for them, while they are occupied with the trivial tasks of their peaceful existence—directing the housekeeping, or learning lessons. Laurence and Juliette—twelve and ten—have dear faces, gentle and grave; both are blond, the elder is the more serious of the two, the younger is a shade more heedless—yet only a shade! I am well aware that Marguerite loves them better than she loves me: like so many other women, my dear wife lets herself be almost entirely conquered by maternity, and my share in her has come to be secondary. No matter! So it is and so it should be. I content myself with that part of her affection, knowing it to be warm and faithful. It is enough for me to be the keystone of that modest social edifice, a family; to maintain it in good condition, to keep it in repair, improve, and embellish it—that is my task and my delight. Affection is an indistinguishable cement, but it gives solidity to the walls. Do I manifest mine, profound as it is? Scarcely at all: I am sometimes surly, preoccupied, and cross. At such times Laurence will throw her arms about me and wheedle me like a little woman; Juliette, more easily disturbed, more sensitive and timid, watches me in silence. Marguerite bears sweetly with my unjust reproaches. Such womanly resignation is her lot, the