"Others, too," she replied.
"Assuredly. Town-laborers, for example."
"It is not they—"
"Pardon! I've there known poor mothers of families, virtuous women, I assure you, real saints, who wanted even bread."
"But those," replied Emma, and the corners of her mouth twitched as she spoke, "those, Monsieur le Curé, who have bread and have no—"
"Fire in the winter," said the priest.
"Oh, what does that matter?"
"What! What does it matter? It seems to me that when one has firing and food—for, after all—"
"My God! my God!" she sighed.
"Do you feel unwell?" he asked, approaching her anxiously. "It is indigestion, no doubt? You must get home, Madame Bovary; drink a little tea, that will strengthen you, or else a glass of fresh water with a little moist sugar."