MadameBovaryhadopenedherwindowoverlookingthegardenandwatchedtheclouds。TheygatheredaroundthesunsetonthesideofRouenandthenswiftlyrolledbacktheirblackcolumns，behindwhichthegreatraysofthesunlookedoutlikethegoldenarrowsofasuspendedtrophy，whiletherestoftheemptyheavenswaswhiteasporcelain。Butagustofwindbowedthepoplars，andsuddenlytherainfell；itpatteredagainstthegreenleaves。
Thenthesunreappeared，thehensclucked，sparrowsshooktheirwingsinthedampthickets，andthepoolsofwateronthegravelastheyflowedawaycarriedoffthepinkflowersofanacacia。
“Ah!howfaroffhemustbealready!“shethought。
MonsieurHomais，asusual，cameathalf-pastsixduringdinner。
“Well，“saidhe，“sowe’vesentoffouryoungfriend!“