The yellow curtains along the windows let a heavy, whitish light enter

softly. Emma felt about, opening and closing her eyes, while the drops

of dew hanging from her hair formed, as it were, a topaz aureole around

her face. Rodolphe, laughing, drew her to him, and pressed her to his

breast.

Then she examined the apartment, opened the drawers of the tables,

combed her hair with his comb, and looked at herself in his

shaving-glass. Often she even put between her teeth the big pipe that

lay on the table by the bed, amongst lemons and pieces of sugar near a

bottle of water.

It took them a good quarter of an hour to say goodbye. Then Emma cried.

She would have wished never to leave Rodolphe. Something stronger than

herself forced her to him; so much so, that one day, seeing her come

unexpectedly, he frowned as one put out.

"What is the matter with you?" she said. "Are you ill? Tell me!"

At last he declared with a serious air that her visits were becoming

imprudent--that she was compromising herself.




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