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Updated: July 12, 2025
Perhaps again, the husband failed to realize Honorine's girlish dreams? Who can tell, while happy days last, what precepts he has neglected?
Not yet nine! Am I not up? Am I not dressed? Have I not breakfasted before nine?" "That is so, husband. That is so." Honorine's voice, prompt in cheerful acquiescence, came from the next room, where she was washing his cup, saucer, and spoon. "It is getting worse and worse every day. I tell you, Honorine, Pompey must be discharged. He is worthless. He is trifling. Discharge him! Discharge him!
There was a difference meanwhile for such puzzlements before the porticos of the theatres; all questions melted for me there into the single depth of envy envy of the equal, the beatific command of the evening hour, in the régime of Honorine's young train, who were fresh for the early sparrow and the chiffonier even after shedding buckets of tears the night before, and not so much as for the first or the second time, over the beautiful story of La Dame aux Camélias.
"'It was eighteen months after my father's death my mother followed him to the tomb in a few months when the fearful night came which surprised me by Honorine's farewell letter. What poetic delusion had seduced my wife? Was it through her senses? Was it the magnetism of misfortune or of genius? Which of these powers had taken her by storm or misled her? I would not know.
I sat down in a chair in the avenue near the lodge, my head buried in my hands, and there I remained for almost an hour. ""Madame had to dress," said Gobain, to hide Honorine's hesitancy under a pride of appearance which was flattering to me.
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