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Updated: June 13, 2025
It was, in fact, the favorite "twosing" spot of Green Bay. Stools there were for children, and armchairs for old people were not lacking. The small yellow spinning wheel of Madame Ursule, as I found afterwards Madame Grignon was commonly called, stood ready to revolve its golden disk wherever she sat. The servants were Pawnee Indians, moving about their duties almost with stealth.
"And come sobbing back to me for 'reassurance." "No," she said, quickly, "I should go down to Ursule." "Ursule has a mattress on deck; I assisted her up." "There is the captain! Now" He seized her hand and drew her down beside him.
Ursule was whimsical, and displayed at times the shyness, the melancholy, and the transports of a pariah; then she would often break out into nervous fits of laughter, and muse lazily, like a woman unsound both in head and heart. Her eyes, which at times had a scared expression like those of Adelaide, were as limpid as crystal, similar to those of kittens doomed to die of consumption.
"She is below, then," he said, "not drowned. There is Reynolds. Mr. Reynolds, will you take this young lady to her servant, Ursule, the woman you rescued?" And Mademoiselle Le Blanc disappeared under that gentleman's escort. The ordinary restraints of social life not obtaining so much on board ship as elsewhere, Mr.
In the case of Ursule, we see that she cultivates flowers, but we do not feel that she is fond of them. As for the Doctor, he would have or might have been less a puppet, had the author himself judged with wiser reserve the mysterious forces that exist in the world of sub-consciousness.
The Lark was the appellation which had replaced Ursule in the depths of Marius' melancholy. "Stop," said he with a sort of unreasoning stupor peculiar to these mysterious asides, "this is her meadow. I shall know where she lives now." It was absurd, but irresistible. And every day he returned to that meadow of the Lark. Javert's triumph in the Gorbeau hovel seemed complete, but had not been so.
Purcell, the grandchild of Susan White, to Susanne Le Blanc, was so extraordinary, a number of years ago, that, when Ursule, my daughter's nurse, first saw her, she fainted with terror. My wife, you are aware, was born long after these events.
Will it be believed that a town memorialized by the great, perhaps the greatest, French novelist, could not produce its title of honour, in other words a copy of "Ursule Mirouet"? This town of 4,000 and odd souls and chef-lieu of department does not possess a bookseller's shop.
The mother dropped her pan upon the fire; Denise gave a cry of joy; all the others stood by in petrified astonishment. "Jean-Francois is pardoned!" cried the whole village, now rushing toward the house, having heard the news from Ursule. "Monseigneur the bishop " "I knew he was innocent!" cried the mother.
"And what do you think of the mirage now?" she asked. "Where is Ursule? I must go to her," she added suddenly, after a brief silence, starting to her feet. "Shall I accompany you?" "Oh, no." "She lies on a mattress there, behind that group," nodding in the implied direction; "and it would be well, if you could lie beside her and get an hour's rest." "Me? I couldn't sleep.
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