Пані Боварі

Chapter 9

           Ashegrewolderhismannergrewheavier;atdesserthecutthecorksoftheemptybottles;aftereatinghecleanedhisteethwithhistongue;intakingsouphemadeagurglingnoisewitheveryspoonful;and,ashewasgettingfatter,thepuffed-outcheeksseemedtopushtheeyes,alwayssmall,uptothetemples.

           SometimesEmmatuckedtheredbordersofhisunder-vestuntohiswaistcoat,rearrangedhiscravat,andthrewawaythedirtygloveshewasgoingtoputon;andthiswasnot,ashefancied,forhimself;itwasforherself,byadiffusionofegotism,ofnervousirritation.Sometimes,too,shetoldhimofwhatshehadread,suchasapassageinanovel,ofanewplay,orananecdoteofthe"upperten"thatshehadseeninafeuilleton;for,afterall,Charleswassomething,anever-openear,andever-readyapprobation.Sheconfidedmanyathingtohergreyhound.Shewouldhavedonesotothelogsinthefireplaceortothependulumoftheclock.

           Atthebottomofherheart,however,shewaswaitingforsomethingtohappen.Likeshipwreckedsailors,sheturneddespairingeyesuponthesolitudeofherlife,seekingafaroffsomewhitesailinthemistsofthehorizon.Shedidnotknowwhatthischancewouldbe,whatwindwouldbringither,towardswhatshoreitwoulddriveher,ifitwouldbeashalloporathree-decker,ladenwithanguishorfullofblisstotheportholes.

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