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They were working then upon the Pont Tournant. The Czar industriously examined this work, and remained there a long time. In the afternoon he went to see, at the Palais Royal, Madame, who had sent her compliments to him by her officer. The armchair excepted, she received him as she would have received the King.
He clasped her so tightly she could hardly breathe, all she knew was she seemed to be floating in the air, and to be crushed against his breast. "Prince, please, I am suffocating!" she cried at last. Then he swung her off her feet, and stopped by an armchair, and Tamara subsided into it, panting, not able to speak.
The whitish, faded fellow lifted himself heavily, and shaking his head slowly said in a thick voice: "You ought to be ashamed. I am a heavy man, and yet I understand justice!" He raised his hand higher than his head and was silent, half-closing his eyes as if looking at something at a distance. "What is it?" shouted the old judge in excited astonishment, dropping back in his armchair.
And the rector reached out his hand again for his pipe, and gave one or two energetic puffs to it as he surveyed his friend stretched before him in the depths of an armchair. 'I will make myself a public nuisance, but the people shall have their drains! 'It seems to me, said Langham, musing, 'that in my youth people talked about Ruskin; now they talk about drains. 'And quite right too.
Whether or not in years to come she would find room in her heart for human passion, she had no room for it now. She had only room for the little creatures she befriended and for her eager, quickly growing self. For, like her mother, she had the egoism that is more selfless than most people's altruism the divine egoism that is genius. When Edward got home his mother was asleep in the armchair.
The path was just as he had left it, perhaps a little more uneven than in the old days; the doves were cooing, and the white cat purred in the doorway just as of yore. The new-comer approached with noiseless tread, softly turned the handle of the door, and entered. A gray-haired woman sat inside in a large armchair. She was the young man's grandmother.
"Sit down!" snapped Dr. Cumberly, turning to him; "damn it, Leroux, you are worse than a woman!" In a manner almost childlike, the novelist obeyed the will of the stronger man, throwing himself into an armchair, and burying his face in his hands. "My wife!" he kept muttering "my wife!"...
His house-keeper routed him from his armchair for dinner and tea, and at each meal he made a feeble pretence of eating and drinking, and, having been scolded for his poor appetite, went back to his old place. He sat there till the room was dark, scarcely moving, but wearing no very noticeable sign of pain or trouble. The story was so old, and the misfortune it related was so long past mending!
Muriel, seated in the opposite armchair, was absorbed in her new story, and beyond occasionally asking Patty to poke the fire or put on more coals, took no notice of her cousin, and did not see that anything was wrong.
You shall pay for this, you wicked little darling;" and, taking the shaving brush in his hand, he chased me round the room. I dodged round the table, I took refuge behind the armchair, upsetting his boots with my skirt, getting the tongs at the same time entangled in it.
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