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Updated: June 10, 2025
Only a man who knew Paris well could detect a difference in the early morning crowds the absence of many young porters who used to carry great loads on their heads before quenching their thirst at the Chien Qui Fume, and the presence of many young girls of the midinette class, who in normal times lie later in bed before taking the metro to their shops. The shops were closed now.
He found the Métro entrance at the exit of the Gare Montparnasse, took the train, and arrived, shortly afterwards, at the Gare du Nord, very sober. Very sober and angry. And when he reached his home in the provinces, he was still sober and still angry. Nor did he know what he should do. He did not know whether he should kill his wife or not. If he did, he must go back to the Front.
He could readily drop out at his destination, and bid the driver continue to the Gare du Nord; and the Metro was neither quick nor direct enough for his design which included getting under cover well before daybreak. Somewhat sulkily, then, if without betraying his temper, he signalled the cocher, opened the door, and handed the girl in. "If you don't mind dropping me en route..."
"The first train leaves about half-past eight, and it's now not more than five." "That can't be helped. I can wait in the station." He shrugged: that was her own look-out if she were sincere in asserting that she meant to leave Paris; something which he took the liberty of doubting. "You can reach it by the Metro," he suggested "the Underground, you know; there's a station handy St.
Andrews stood in the sunny boulevard in front of the metro station, where the plane trees were showing tiny gold-brown leaves, sniffing the smell of a flower-stall in front of which a woman stood, with a deft abstracted gesture tying up bunch after bunch of violets. He felt a desire to be out in the country, to be away from houses and people.
One met them hobbling down the Elysees under the shade of the chestnut trees, in the metro, at the cafes, the legless and armless, also the more horrible ones whose faces had been shot awry. They were so young, so white-faced, with life's long road ahead to be traveled, thus handicapped! There was something wistful often in their silent eyes.
Come, O new generation, inventor of strange pleasures! as you have devised new methods to satisfy male lust, grant the same privilege to women; let them have intercourse with one another like men, girding themselves with the infamous instruments of lust, an unholy imitation of a fruitless union." Herondas, Mime vi: KORITTO | Two women friends METRO | A Female Domestic. Time, about 300 B. C.
She said: 'Why, Monty, I do believe you'd like to marry her." Cassy's mouth twitched as she munched it. "She presumed to say that! She's an insolent beast." "He shut her up, I can tell you. He said if he got on his knees, you wouldn't dust your feet on him." "That jackanapes! I should say not!" "You might say worse. Take the Metro. You're spat on if you're down and spat at if you're up.
"Why, you haven't had a liqueur yet," cried Heineman. "No...but where can I meet you people later?" "Cafe de Rohan at five...opposite the Palais Royal." "You'll never find it." "Yes I will," said Andrews. "Palais Royal metro station," they shouted after him as he dashed out of the door. He hurried into the gardens. Many people sat on benches in the frail sunlight.
There was a Métro entrance somewhere about the Gare Montparnasse and he tried to find it. The Métro would take him to the Gare du Nord. No good. Such crowds of people all about, and they called him Mon Vieux, and pulled him this way and that, laughing with him, offering him cigarettes and happy comments, received by a brain in which three bottles of wine were already fermenting.
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