232 Les Miserables
all summer; the wind irritates me; the wind does not abate.
Blachevelle is very stingy; there are hardly any green peas
in the market; one does not know what to eat. I have the
spleen, as the English say, butter is so dear! and then you see
it is horrible, here we are dining in a room with a bed in it,
and that disgusts me with life.’