Page 218 - madame-bovary

spring morning coming into his room.
The yellow curtains along the windows let a heavy, whit-
ish 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. Ro-
dolphe, 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 unexpect-
edly, 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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