the leaping glare beyond sent a ray into his corner and for a moment every little detail was distinct. it was marshal dubois. he was lying against a huge slab of the war map. to it there stuck and from it there dangled little wooden objects, the symbols of infantry and cavalry and guns, as they were disposed upon the frontier. he did not seem to be aware of this at his back, he had an effect of inattention, not indifferent attention, but as if he were thinking....
he had previously lived a retired life, and his contemporaries were unaware of his ability.
in a basement window she saw the sign 'ladies' restaurant': a pie and a dish of doughnuts lay against the dusty pane like petrified food in an ethnological museum. she entered, and a young woman with a weak mouth and a brazen eye cleared a table for her near the window. the table was covered with a red and white cotton cloth and adorned with a bunch of celery in a thick tumbler and a salt- cellar full of grayish lumpy salt. julia ordered tea, and sat a long time waiting for it. she was glad to be away from the noise and confusion of the streets.
what do i care, in the dreams and the languor of spring,
that my songs do not show me at all?
for they are a fragrance, and i am a flint and a fire,
i am an answer, they are only a call.
but what do i care, for love will be over so soon,
let my heart have its say and my mind stand idly by,
for my mind is proud and strong enough to be silent,
it is my heart that makes my songs, not i.