Remembering the ball became for Emma a daily occupation. Every time Wednesday came round, she told herself when she woke up: ‘Ah! One week ago... two weeks ago... three weeks ago, I was there!’ And, little by little, in her memory, the faces all blurred together; she forgot the tunes of the quadrilles; no longer could she so clearly picture the liveries and the rooms; some details disappeared, but the yearning remained.
-Gustave Flaubert
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