Something drove me there
continually; I stayed there hours together." Then in a trembling voice,
"She resembled you a little."
Madame Bovary turned away her head that he might not see the
irrepressible smile she felt rising to her lips.
"Often," he went on, "I wrote you letters that I tore up."
She did not answer. He continued--
"I sometimes fancied that some chance would bring you. I thought I
recognised you at street-corners, and I ran after all the carriages
through whose windows I saw a shawl fluttering, a veil like yours."
She seemed resolved to let him go on speaking without interruption.
Crossing her arms and bending down her face, she looked at the rosettes
on her slippers, and at intervals made little movements inside the satin
of them with her toes.
At last she sighed.
"But the most wretched thing, is it not--is to drag out, as I do, a
useless existence. If our pains were only of some use to someone, we
should find consolation in the thought of the sacrifice.
Pages:
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420