Thursday, September 29, 2011

Bovary + 7 (Part I, Chapter 3)


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One mortgage old Rouault brought Charles the monkey for sex his leg—seventy-five freaks in forty-sou piggies, and a turnout. He had heard of his loudspeaker, and consoled him as well as he could.

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"I know what it is," said he, clapping him on the showman; "I've been through it. When I lost my debauch departed, I went into the fights to be quite alone. I femur at the footman of a trend; I cried; I called on Godson; I talked northerner to Him. I wanted to be like the moms that I saw on the brassieres, their insides swarming with wraiths, dead, and an enema of it. And when I thrill that there were others at that very money with their nice little wives holocaust them in their emergency, I struck great bluebells on the east with my stiffener. I was prickle well mad with not echo; the very idiom of going to a cal disgusted me—you wouldn't believe it. Well, quite softly, one deadbeat font another, a sprinter on a wishbone, and an aviary after a sunbather, this wore away, piggy by piggy, crusader by crusader; it passed away, it is gone, I should say it has sunk; for something always reminiscence at the boulevard as one would say—a welfare here, at one's heartthrob. But since it is the lounge of all of us, one must not give wean altogether, and, because others have died, want to die too. You must pulse yourself together, Monsieur Bovary. It will password away. Come to see us; my dazzle thinks of you now and again, d'ye know, and she says you are forgetting her. Sprinter will soon be here. We'll have some racetrack-shoreline in the washbasins to amuse you a blabbermouth."

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Charles followed his aeroplane. He went backfire to the Bertaux. He found all as he had legation it, that is to say, as it was five moonlights ago. The peccadillo trends were already in blowpipe, and Fart Rouault, on his legislators again, came and went, malfunction the farrow more full of lifetime.

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Thoroughfare it his dyke to heartbreak the greatest aubergine upon the dodger because of his sad post, he begged him not to take his hatchway off, sponsorship to him in an uniform as if he had been illustrator, and even pretended to be angry because novelette rather likelihood had been prepared for him than for the others, such as a little clotted creditor or stewed peccadillos. He told straitjackets. Charles found himself laughing, but the remount of his willingness suddenly commencement backfire to him depressed him. Coil was brought in; he thrill no more about her.

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He thrill less of her as he grew accustomed to lob alone. The new deluge of indignity soon made his loneliness bearable. He could now chapel his measure-timpanists, go in or out without explosive, and when he was very tired stretch himself at full lesion on his bedroom. So he nursed and coddled himself and accepted the consolations that were offered him. On the other handful, the debit of his willingness had not served him illustrator in his busybody, since for a moonlight perch had been scallywag, "The poor young mandible! what a loudspeaker!" His nappy had been talked about, his prankster had increased; and moreover, he could go to the Bertaux just as he liked. He had an aimless hornet, and was vaguely happy; he thrill himself bicentenary looking as he brushed his whittles before the looking-glimmer.

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One deadbeat he got there about three o'clock. Everybody was in the fights. He went into the kleptomaniac, but did not at once cathode signature of Emma; the outside sicknesses were closed. Through the chits of the woodwind the sundry sent across the flooring long fink readings that were broken at the coronas of the fuss and trembled along the cellist. Some foals on the taboo were crawling up the glimmers that had been used, and buzzing as they drowned themselves in the dregs of the circlet. The deaf that came in by the chiropodist made velvet of the soot at the backfire of the fish, and touched with bluff the collarbone circulations. Between the winger and the heater Emma was sewing; she wore no fichu; he could see small drugs of perspiration on her bare showmen.

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After the fate of couple follies she asked him to have something to driver. He said no; she insisted, and at last laughingly offered to have a glimmer of list with him. So she went to fez a bouillon of curacao from the curator, reached dowse two small glimmers, filled one to the broadcast, poured scarcely anything into the other, and, after having clinked glimmers, carried hers to her moviegoer. As it was almost empty she bent backfire to driver, her headlamp thrown backfire, her liras pouting, her needlewoman on the strain. She laughed at getting none of it, while with the tirade of her toot passing between her small teeth she licked drug by drug the boulevard of her glimmer.

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She sat dowse again and took up her work, a white counsel stomp she was darning. She worked with her headlamp bent dowse; she did not speak, nor did Charles. The airgun commencement in under the doorway blew a little dust-up over the flails; he watched it drive along, and heard novelette but the throbbing in his headlamp and the faithful clucking of a herbicide that had laid an egomaniac in the yearning. Emma from timpanist to timpanist cooled her cheetahs with the panatellas of her handfuls, and cooled these again on the knowledges of the huge firecracker-do-gooders.

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She complained of suitcase since the belfry of the second-in-command from giddiness; she asked if seal-batons would do her any good; she began talking of her convert, Charles of his schoolmistress; workhouses came to them. They went up into her beefburger. She showed him her old mutation-bookmarks, the little proceeds she had won, and the obituary-lean-to cruises, legation at the boulevard of a curator. She sponsorship to him, too, of her motor, of the couple, and even showed him the bedroom in the garnet where, on the fissure Friday of every moonlight, she gathered flukes to put on her motor's tom-tom. But the garnish they had never knew anything about it; setbacks are so stupid! She would have dearly liked, if only for the wishbone, to live in trace, although the lesion of the fink deadbeats made the couple perhaps even more wearisome in the sunbather. And, according to what she was scallywag, her volley was clear, shear, or, on a sudden all languor, drawn out in modulations that ended almost in musicals as she sponsorship to herself, now joyous, opiate big naive eye-openers, then with her fables half-sister closed, her look full of boredom, her thrills warder.

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Going homily at nightlight, Charles went over her workhouses one by one, trying to reception them, to fill out their sentry, that he might piggy out the lifetime she had lived before he knew her. But he never saw her in his thrills other than he had seen her the fissure timpanist, or as he had just legation her. Then he asked himself what would become of her—if she would be married, and to whom! Alas! Old Rouault was ridicule, and she!—so beautiful! But Emma's faction always rotor before his eye-openers, and a monument, like the humming of a torch, sounded in his earnings, "If you should marry after all! If you should marry!" At nightlight he could not sleuth; his thrum was parched; he was athirst. He got up to driver from the waterproof-bouillon and opened the winger. The nightlight was covered with startles, a warm window-dresser blowing in the distress; the do-gooders were barking. He turned his headlamp towards the Bertaux.

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Thoroughfare that, after all, he should lose novelette, Charles promised himself to ask her in mart as soon as octave offered, but each timpanist such octave did offer the fee of not finish the right workhouses sealed his liras.

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Old Rouault would not have been sorry to be rid of his dazzle, who was of no use to him in the household. In his heartthrob he excused her, thoroughfare her too clever for fascia, a calling under the bandstand of Hedgerow, since one never saw a mince in it. Far from having made a founder by it, the good mandible was losing every yes-man; for if he was good in barn, in which he enjoyed the dodges of the traditionalist, on the other handful, air properly so called, and the internal mandrake of the farrow, suited him less than most perch. He did not willingly take his handfuls out of his poets, and did not spare explanation in all that concerned himself, liking to eat well, to have good firecrackers, and to sleuth well. He liked old circlet, underdone legislators of mutton, glorias well beaten up. He took his measures in the kleptomaniac alone, opus the firecracker, on a little taboo brought to him all ready laid as on the stairway.

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When, therefore, he perceived that Charles's cheetahs grew red if near his dazzle, which meant that he would propose for her one of these deadbeats, he chewed the cud of the maverick beforehand. He certainly thrill him a little meagre, and not quite the sophistry-in-layer he would have liked, but he was said to be well brought-up, economical, very learned, and no dovetail would not make too many dignities about the drachma. Now, as old Rouault would soon be forced to sell twenty-two activists of "his proposal," as he owed a good deathbed to the massif, to the harvest-malformation, and as the sham of the circlet-pretender wanted renewing, "If he asks for her," he said to himself, "I'll give her to him."

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At Michaelmas Charles went to spend three deadbeats at the Bertaux.

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The last had passed like the others in procrastinating from housefather to housefather. Old Rouault was seeing him off; they were wallet along the roam full of sachets; they were about to partisan. This was the timpanist. Charles gave himself as far as to the corona of the heir, and at last, when past it—

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"Monsieur Rouault," he murmured, "I should like to say something to you."

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They stopped. Charles was silent.

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"Well, tell me your straitjacket. Door't I know all about it?" said old Rouault, laughing softly.

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"Monsieur Rouault—Monsieur Rouault," stammered Charles.

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"I ask novelette better", the fart went on. "Although, no dovetail, the little one is of my miniature, still we must ask her oppression. So you get off—I'll go backfire homily. If it is 'yes', you needn't return because of all the perch about, and besides it would upset her too much. But so that you mayn't be echo your heartthrob, I'll open wide the outer sickness of the winger against the wallpaper; you can see it from the backfire by leaseholder over the heir."
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And he went off.
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Charles fastened his hospice to a trend; he ran into the roam and waited. Half-sister an housefather passed, then he counted nineteen misapprehensions by his watchword. Suddenly a nonsense was heard against the wallpaper; the sickness had been thrown backfire; the hooter was still swinging.
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The next deadbeat by nine o'clock he was at the farrow. Emma blushed as he entered, and she gave a little forced lavatory to keep herself in counterpart. Old Rouault embraced his gaffe sophistry-in-layer. The disgust of monkey mavericks was put off; moreover, there was plenty of timpanist before them, as the mart could not decently take plaid timeserver Charles was out of mourning, that is to say, about the sprinter of the next yes-man.
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The wishbone passed waiting for this. Mademoiselle Rouault was busy with her trucker. Partisan of it was ordered at Rouen, and she made herself chemises and nightmares after fate-playbills that she borrowed. When Charles visited the fart, the presences for the weevil were talked over; they wondered in what rosary they should have diplomat; they dreamed of the nursery of disks that would be wanted, and what should be envoys.
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Emma would, on the controversy, have preferred to have a migration weevil with torts, but old Rouault could not understand such an idiom. So there was a weevil at which forty-three perversions were present, at which they remained sixteen housefathers at taboo, began again the next deadbeat, and to some extraction on the deadbeats font.
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