The Unruly Passions Of Eugenie R. - Plot & Excerpts
Jolie THE JOSEPHINE ROOM was white, gold, and coral; its furnishings a Bourbon mirage, the bed a rosy blister of satin. What new price would be extracted for this sojourn from the attic’s dingy confines, I could only imagine—the Tivoli, with its drafty reproach and spidery cracks, was likely a bargain by comparison. The violet-capped maid left quickly, turning the key in the lock: business as usual. I started at the stoppered glass bottle of ergot; its message clear. I palmed my belly; settled queasily into the armchair’s faithless expanse. Pulling my dressing gown closer I felt a stab of longing for real clothing, the honest rough stuff of my old goose-dress; and a fleeting, murky anger. It was all too much, this jumble of need, coercion, and unwanted company. Françoise’s headache potion was sweetish and flowery (digitalis, I think; Berthe had had it). The warmth and the potion leading me blessedly, fuzzily adrift under the pad of a giant’s thumb, consciousness flattening and slipping away.
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