Госпожа Бовари

Chapter 8

           Asthedeath-rattlebecamestrongerthepriestprayedfaster;hisprayersmingledwiththestifledsobsofBovary,andsometimesallseemedlostinthemuffledmurmuroftheLatinsyllablesthattolledlikeapassingbell.

           Suddenlyonthepavementwasheardaloudnoiseofclogsandtheclatteringofastick;andavoicerosearaucousvoicethatsang

           "MaidsanthewarmthofasummerdayDreamofloveandoflovealways"

           Emmaraisedherselflikeagalvanisedcorpse,herhairundone,hereyesfixed,staring.

           "Wherethesicklebladeshavebeen,Nannette,gatheringearsofcorn,Passesbendingdown,myqueen,Totheearthwheretheywereborn."

           "Theblindman!"shecried.AndEmmabegantolaugh,anatrocious,frantic,despairinglaugh,thinkingshesawthehideousfaceofthepoorwretchthatstoodoutagainsttheeternalnightlikeamenace.

           "Thewindisstrongthissummerday,Herpetticoathasflownaway."

           Shefellbackuponthemattressinaconvulsion.Theyalldrewnear.Shewasdead.

           

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