The Investigator is “a disappearing person, no sooner seen than forgotten,” Claudel writes.
Adrienne reads aloud to us in the evenings; a man called Claudel; awfully stiff French to follow but rather beautiful.
Mrs. Claudel knew then that he had been looking and in a way then was loving.
Mrs. Claudel then was continuing in being one married to Mr. Claudel then.
He knew that Mrs. Claudel knew that thing that looking and loving is not anything.
Claudel, even more remote as a thinker from Nietzsche than Péguy, exhibits a kindred temper in the ingrained violence of his art.
Mrs. Claudel if she believed in dreams as much as Hattie and had dreamed that her mother was dead would put on mourning.
Claudel moved that Norwood should be made a member of the committee; and this, of course, was bitterly opposed by the radicals.
But then, a little later, it began to be suspected that she had designs upon Comrade Claudel, the Belgian jeweller.