It was during the summer of 1845, in the garden, under the arbour, Pécuchet, with his feet up on a small seat, was reading aloud in his booming voice, tirelessly, only stopping to dip his fingers into his snuff-box. Bouvard was listening to him, pipe in mouth, legs apart, the top of his trousers undone.

-Gustave Flaubert

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