Madame Bovary - Penn State University

Madame Bovaryminister pealed forth like an organ, while the voices of the gerly the expansions of this soul that would have sung for herwomen repeating his words took them up in chorus delightfully.They were all in a row gesticulating, and anger, ven-at her. But the mad idea seized her that he was looking at her;alone; from the stage, even as he acted, he would have lookedgeance, jealousy, terror, and stupefaction breathed forth at once it was certain. She longed to run to his arms, to take refuge infrom their half-opened mouths. The outraged lover brandished his strength, as in the incarnation of love itself, and to say tohis naked sword; his guipure ruffle rose with jerks to the him, to cry out, “Take me away! carry me with you! let us go!movements of his chest, and he walked from right to left Thine, thine! all my ardour and all my dreams!”with long strides, clanking against the boards the silver-gilt The curtain fell.spurs of his soft boots, widening out at the ankles. He, she The smell of the gas mingled with that of the breaths, thethought must have an inexhaustible love to lavish it upon the waving of the fans, made the air more suffocating. Emmacrowd with such effusion. All her small fault-findings faded wanted to go out; the crowd filled the corridors, and she fellbefore the poetry of the part that absorbed her; and, drawn back in her arm-chair with palpitations that choked her.towards this man by the illusion of the character, she tried to Charles, fearing that she would faint, ran to the refreshmentroomto get a glass of barley-water.imagine to herself his life—that life resonant, extraordinary,splendid, and that might have been hers if fate had willed it. He had great difficulty in getting back to his seat, for hisThey would have known one another, loved one another. With elbows were jerked at every step because of the glass he heldhim, through all the kingdoms of Europe she would have in his hands, and he even spilt three-fourths on the shoulderstravelled from capital to capital, sharing his fatigues and his of a Rouen lady in short sleeves, who feeling the cold liquidpride, picking up the flowers thrown to him, herself embroideringhis costumes. Then each evening, at the back of a box, she were being assassinated. Her husband, who was arunning down to her loins, uttered cries like a peacock, as ifbehind the golden trellis-work she would have drunk in ea-millowner, railed at the clumsy fellow, and while she was with194