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The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard by Anatole France
page 62 of 258 (24%)
"Because I am a wicked woman," she answered.

And she fled away, leaving me all disheartened on my stone.



Paris, December 8, 1859.


My unpacked trunks still encumbered the hall. I was seated at a
tabled covered with all those good things which the land of France
produces for the delectation of gourmets. I was eating a pate
le Chartres, which is alone sufficient to make one love one's
country. Therese, standing before me with her hands joined over her
white apron, was looking at me with benignity, with anxiety, and with
pity. Hamilcar was rubbing himself against my legs, wild with
delight.

These words of an old poet came back to my memory:

"Happy is he who, like Ulysses, hath made a goodly journey."

..."Well," I thought to myself, "I travelled to no purpose; I have
come back with empty hands; but, like Ulysses, I made a goodly
journey."

And having taken my last sip of coffee, I asked Therese for my hat
and cane, which she gave me not without dire suspicions; she feared
I might be going upon another journey. But I reassured her by telling
her to have dinner ready at six o'clock.
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