Anne now saw quite close to her those slightly twisted lips, those eyes that were always dry, those eyes that could not weep; but she did not know what Thérèse was thinking. Young Deguilhem was saying that winter in the country was not so dreadful for a woman who is fond of her home: “There are always so many things to do in a house.” “But you don’t ask for any news of Marie.” “That’s true.... Tell me about Marie....” Anne seemed once more distrustful and hostile; she had been saying for months, in the same tone as her mother: “I would have forgiven her anything, because, after all, she is ill; but I cannot forgive her indifference about Marie. When a mother takes no interest in her child, you can invent any excuses you like for her, I think it is disgraceful.” Thérèse read the young girl’s thoughts: “She despises me because I did not begin by talking about Marie. How can I explain? She would not understand that I can think of nothing but myself, that I am my only interest. Anne, of course, is simply waiting to have children so as to efface herself in them as her mother does, and all the women of the Family. But I want to find myself again; I am trying to make my own acquaintance.... Anne will forget our youth together, the caresses of Jean Azévédo, with the first howl of the brat which that little object will beget upon her without even troubling to take off his coat. The ambition of the women of the Family is to lose all their individual existence. This complete self-sacrifice for the species is a fine thing; I feel the beauty of that absorption, that self-annihilation ... but I--No!...” She tried not to listen to what people were saying, and to think of Marie: the child must be able to talk now: “Perhaps it would amuse me for a few minutes to listen to her, but I should soon get tired of it, and want to be alone with myself again.” “I suppose Marie talks by now?” she asked Anne. “She repeats anything you like. It’s great fun; whenever she hears a cock crow, or the noise of a motor-horn, she puts up her little finger and says: Do you hear the music?’ She’s a perfect little love.” Thérèse thought to herself; “I must try to listen to what they are saying: my head feels quite empty; what is young Deguilhem talking about?” She made a great effort and tried to attend. “My men at Balisac don’t work like they do here: only four barrels of stuff, while the Argelouse men get in seven or eight.” “Well, with resin at its present price, they really must be lazy.” “Do you know that these people can earn a hundred francs a day sometimes? ... but I think we are tiring Madame Desqueyroux.” Thérèse was resting her head against the back of her chair. Everybody got up. Bernard decided that he would not go back to Saint Clair. Young Deguilhem agreed to drive the car which the chauffeur would bring back to Argelouse the following day with Bernard’s luggage. Thérèse made an effort to get up but her mother-in-law prevented her.