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They say we have forgotten it. Some say they remember their past lives. The sluggish cream wound curdling spirals through her tea. Bette remind her of the word: metempsychosis. An example would be better. An example? The Bath of the Nymph over the bed. Given away with the Easter number of Photo Bits: Splendid masterpiece in art colours. Tea before you put milk in.
"When I go out to-mowwow," said one little fellow, about four years old, "I'll look up into the sky vewy hard, wight up; and then I shall see Amy, and God saying to her, 'Hushaby, poo' Amy! You bette' now, Amy? Sha'n't I, Mawion?" She had taught them to call her Marion. "No, my pet: you might look and look, all day long, and every day, and never see God or Amy."
In order to work as he understood the word, it was necessary that he should exclude all outside disturbing influence, and hear only the voices of the world where Le Pere Goriot, old Grandet, La Cousine Bette, and their fellows, toiled, manoeuvred, and suffered.
The tangle of episode and explanation the latter confusing more than it explains which intervenes in the middle, issues in a coarser thread that persists till the close. And yet the start was a fair one. With Cousin Bette, we are back among the monstrosities. Bette is the poor relation who, unlike Pons, revenges herself for her humiliations and the insults bestowed on her.
He is severely reprimanded, deprived of his carrots and sent back in disgrace to his private apartments. Next comes Bette, who is like a big, sleek Norman horse. He makes the calm, dignified, peaceful entrance of a blind giant. His large, dark, brilliant eyes are quite dead, deprived of any reflex power. He feels about with his hoof for the board on which he is to rap his answers.
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