Hadtheynothingelsetosaytooneanother？Yettheireyeswerefullofmoreseriousspeech，andwhiletheyforcedthemselvestofindtrivialphrases，theyfeltthesamelanguorstealingoverthemboth。Itwasthewhisperofthesoul，deep，continuous，dominatingthatoftheirvoices。Surprisedwithwonderatthisstrangesweetness，theydidnotthinkofspeakingofthesensationorofseekingitscause。Comingjoys，liketropicalshores，throwovertheimmensitybeforethemtheirinbornsoftness，anodorouswind，andwearelulledbythisintoxicationwithoutathoughtofthehorizonthatwedonotevenknow。
Inoneplacethegroundhadbeentroddendownbythecattle；theyhadtosteponlargegreenstonesputhereandthereinthemud。
Sheoftenstoppedamomenttolookwheretoplaceherfoot，andtotteringonastonethatshook，herarmsoutspread，herformbentforwardwithalookofindecision，shewouldlaugh，afraidoffallingintothepuddlesofwater。
Whentheyarrivedinfrontofhergarden，MadameBovaryopenedthelittlegate，ranupthestepsanddisappeared。
Leonreturnedtohisoffice。Hischiefwasaway；hejustglancedatthebriefs，thencuthimselfapen，andatlasttookuphishatandwentout。