Although his father had imagined for him a brilliant future in the army, Hervé Joncour ended up earning his living in an unusual profession that, with singular irony, had a feature so sweet as to betray a vaguely feminine intonation.
For a living, Hervé Joncour bought and sold silkworms.
It was 1861. Flaubert was writing Salammbô electric light was still a hypothesis and Abraham Lincoln, on the other side of the ocean, was fighting a war whose end he would not see.
เขียนยังไม่จบหรือเปล่านี่
ประโยคหาย