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i wiggle my fingers poem

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i wiggle my fingers poem

Madame Grandet had no thoughts at all as she went to bed. She heardthe miser walking up and down his room through the door ofcommunication which was in the middle of the partition. Like all timidwomen, she had studied the character of her lord. Just as the petrelforesees the storm, she knew by imperceptible signs when an inwardtempest shook her husband; and at such times, to use an expression ofher own, she "feigned dead."

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Grandet gazed at the door lined with sheet-iron which he lately put tohis sanctum, and said to himself,, wigjig

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"What a crazy idea of my brother to bequeath his son to me! A finelegacy! I have not fifty francs to give him. What are fifty francs toa dandy who looked at my barometer as if he meant to make firewood ofit!" wigjig patterns

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In thinking over the consequences of that legacy of anguish Grandetwas perhaps more agitated than his brother had been at the moment ofwriting it.

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