“It was not one that she would have expected to choose. She had hoped to live in one of those high houses which make the Ile Saint-Louis look like a tall grey barge moored on the Seine, or in a discreet little villa in Passy which would have sent up prodigious thickets of lilac above its trelliswork palings in springtime, or in one of the blackened palaces of the Rue de l’Université, that long alley street full of amber antiquity and little shops which have stewed in their stuffiness for centuri...es, so that it seems kitchen-warm on the coldest day. She had hoped, indeed, to live in some quarter where Paris made no attempt to disguise that it is an overgrown provincial town. But the house she chose was in the dreariest part of the Haussmannized boulevards, among over-handsome mansions like heavy-bosomed dowagers, decked with dark stone garlands of swollen flowers so pompous and nineteenth century that they could please no one save as illustrations to Proust. Marc and Isabelle had gone to look it over only because it belonged to a family friend who was eager to disembarrass himself of it, since he had inherited it without the fortune to maintain it.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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