Brushing

hand from his face. “Please, don’t interrupt me. I said ‘not yet.’ That doesn’t mean I won’t send it, but not for a while. I’m staying with you. I’m going to Paris with you.” He forced the words. “Suppose I don’t want you to.” She leaned forward brushing her lips against his cheek. “That won’t wash. The computer just rejected it.” “I wouldn’t be so certain, if I were you.” “But you’re not me. I’m me, and I know the way you held me, and tried to say so many things you couldn’t say. Things I think

can easily imagine, therefore, at the end of two months we were cleaned out. Then it was that we came to Hôtel Boncoeur and that this life began." She checked herself with a strange choking in the throat. Tears gathered in her eyes. She finished brushing her linen. "I must get my scalding water," she murmured. But Mme Boche, much annoyed at this sudden interruption to the long-desired confidence, called the boy. "Charles," she said, "it would be very good of you if you would bring a pail of hot water

existence They want to wipe out every sign of me Il secoua les épaules He jerked his shoulders Soupirai-je, résigné. I sighed with resignation After the meeting One evening, quite late, I was at home working on my computer, I was brushing up an interview I had done with the local candidate for the next elections. It was important stuff. The man was a good fellow and I trusted him when he said that South Africa would change and he believed it could be done without bloodshed. It

bonzaï n. m. japonais bookmaker n. m. anglais boom n. m. anglais boomerang n. m. anglais boots n. m. anglais bowling n. m. anglais boy n. m. anglais brainstorming n. m. anglais brain-trust n. m. anglais break n. m. anglais breakfast n. m. anglais brushing n. m. anglais building n. m. anglais bulldozer n. m. anglais bungalow n. m. hindi et anglais bunker n. m. allemand C cake n. m anglais call-girl n. f. anglais cameraman n. m. anglais camping n. m. anglais camping-car n. m. anglais caravaning

seducing her himself. Yet he is clearly also aware of her suffering, realizing that she has “fallen out of love with life.” The final scene is typical of Lahiri’s subtle ambiguity: Mr. Kapasi, who has lost his own child, watches the unloving mother brushing her rescued son’s hair while the slip of paper that once promised him so much flutters away in the wind. No one is simple in this story, which is a mark of Lahiri’s mastery. “A Real Durwan” is the first story in this volume entirely about Indians

wouldn't, on purpose.” But all the same he could not go on being a cynic and a dirty sloven: he had no right to offend other people's feelings, all the more so in that those others needed him and were calling him to them. He gave his clothes a careful brushing. And the linen he wore was always passable; in that sense he was particularly clean. He washed zealously that morning—Nastasya found him some soap—washed his hair, his neck, and especially his hands. But when it came to the question of whether