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Proust, Marcel, 1871-1922

"Swann's Way"

The
old lady who read the Debats was sitting on her chair, in her invariable
place, and had just accosted a park-keeper, with a friendly wave of her
hands towards him as she exclaimed "What a lovely day!" And when the
chair-woman came up to collect her penny, with an infinity of smirks and
affectations she folded the ticket away inside her glove, as though it had
been a posy of flowers, for which she had sought, in gratitude to the
donor, the most becoming place upon her person. When she had found it, she
performed a circular movement with her neck, straightened her boa, and
fastened upon the collector, as she shewed her the end of yellow paper
that stuck out over her bare wrist, the bewitching smile with which a
woman says to a young man, pointing to her bosom: "You see, I'm wearing
your roses!"
I dragged Francoise, on the way towards Gilberte, as far as the Arc de
Triomphe; we did not meet her, and I was returning towards the lawn
convinced, now, that she was not coming, when, in front of the wooden
horses, the little girl with the sharp voice flung herself upon me:
"Quick, quick, Gilberte's been here a quarter of an hour.


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