That room was like an asylum of
bourgeois rectitude, luxurious dignity, in which she felt protected,
saved. Some little objects on which her eyes lighted, a pocket
scent-bottle ornamented with an opal, a paper-knife of burnished silver
left inside a book, fully reassured her. She was moved, almost surprised
at the sight of them, as if they had acquired some new and particular
meaning. Then she shivered slightly and perceived that her hands were icy
cold. She rubbed them together gently, wishing to warm them a little. Why
was it, too, that she now felt so tired? It seemed to her as if she had
just returned from some long walk, from some accident, from some affray
in which she had been bruised. She felt within her also a tendency to
somnolence, the somnolence of satiety, as if she had feasted too
copiously off some spicy dish, after too great a hunger. Amid the fatigue
which benumbed her limbs she desired nothing more; apart from her
sleepiness all that she felt was a kind of astonishment that things
should be as they were. However, she had again begun to listen, repeating
that if that frightful silence continued, she would certainly sink upon a
chair, close her eyes, and sleep.
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