Andrée’s faults had become more marked, she was not such pleasant company as when I had first met her. A sort of sharp uneasiness hovered over her, ready, like a mist over the sea, to gather into storm-clouds if I were to mention any pleasure that Albertine and I shared. This did not stop Andrée being kinder to me, fonder of me than — and I have had many proofs of this — many more obviously pleasant people. But the smallest sign of happiness, if not caused by her, made an impression on her nerves as unpleasant as the sound of a slamming door.
Marcel Proust, The Prisoner, translated by Carol Clark, p. 50.
This is a good portrait of a storm-cloud girl. It may also be a good portrait of a total Dickhead not understanding the effect he has on people who love the woman he is smothering in a closet.
