I was pretty well mad with not eating; the very idea of going to a cafe disgusted me--you wouldn't believe it.

Well, quite softly, one day following another, a spring on a winter, and an autumn after a summer, this wore away, piece by piece, crumb by crumb; it passed away, it is gone, I should say it has sunk; for something always remains at the bottom as one would say--a weight here, at one's heart.

But since it is the lot of all of us, one must not give way altogether, and, because others have died, want to die too.

You must pull yourself together, Monsieur Bovary.

It will pass away.