The house became deserted. When my father died, it was as if everything was dead. In the absence of Melchior's gruff voice, there was nothing to be heard from morning till night but the disagreeable sound of the river. Christophe was so angry that he buried himself in his work. He hated himself for wanting to be happy in the past and wanted to punish himself. When people comforted him or said some affectionate words to him, he ignored them with arrogance. He was absorbed in his daily work and coldly devoted to teaching. The students who knew he had suffered misfortune thought his indifference was unreasonable. But those who are older and have suffered, and who know how much pain is hidden in a child's apparent indifference, feel sorry for him. He did not accept their sympathy. Even music could not give him any comfort, but was only a lesson for him. He was not interested in anything, or thought he was not interested, and deliberately wanted to make life meaningless and still live, as if he would be happier. The two brothers, seeing that the family was so calm about the funeral, were afraid and fled. Lotauf went into the shop of his uncle Danvotau and lodged there. Enstedt had been apprenticed to two or three trades, and had ended up on a ship, taking the route of Mainz and Cologne on the Rhine; he did not return until he needed money. With only Christophe and his mother left, the house seemed too big, and the financial difficulties, and the debts discovered after his father's death, forced them to find a simpler and cheaper place to live. On Caishi Street, they found a three-storey building with two or three rooms. The location is in the center of the city, very noisy, far away from the river, the trees, all the friendly places. But at this time, we should listen to reason and not rely on emotion. Here Christophe found another good opportunity to teach himself to be wronged. The fact that the owner of the house, the old clerk of the court, was a friend of her grandfather, and knew them all,
Teardrop Pallet Racking, was enough to make Louisa decide that she was too lonely in her empty home, and that she only wanted to be close to people who did not forget her beloved family. They began to prepare for the move. They spent their last few days in the old house, which was a loving and painful farewell, and they were deeply aware of the desolation. For the sake of shyness or fear, they did not dare to tell each other their pain. Everyone thinks that they should not let their sadness show to each other. Half of the window guard was closed, the room was gloomy, and the two of them were eating in a hurry at the table, not daring to speak loudly, not daring to look at each other, for fear of not being able to hide the panic in their hearts. As soon as they had finished eating, they parted: Christophe went out to do his work, but came back as soon as he was free, sneaked into the house, went up to his bedroom or attic with his toes,
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cantilever racking system, closed the door, sat on an old box in the corner or on the windowsill, and stayed there without thinking, while the old house, which rang here and there as he walked, filled his ears with a wonderful buzz. His heart trembled like a room. Trembling, he paid attention to the sounds inside and outside the house, the noise of the floor, and many small and familiar sounds that he knew as soon as he heard them. He was unconscious, his mind full of images of the past, and he did not wake up until the clock of St. Martin's Temple reminded him that he had to go to work again. Louisa was on the next floor, walking softly up and down. Suddenly the sound of footsteps disappeared, and she could be silent for hours. Christophe listened attentively and came down uneasily. After a person has suffered a great disaster, he will be so anxious for a long time. He pushed the door halfway open: Mother was sitting in front of the closet with her back to him, surrounded by a lot of things: rags, old things, scattered things that she had moved out to clean up. But she had no strength: everything brought back memories; she turned it over and over, and thought about it; it fell from her hand, and she slumped in her chair with her arms down, for hours in a state of painful paralysis. Now poor Louisa lived by thinking, thinking of her unhappy past. But she was used to suffering, and was grateful for any return of her kindness; a few glimmers of light were enough to illuminate her life. She had completely forgotten what Melchior had given her, and she remembered only the good things he had done. The story of her marriage was the most remarkable thing about her anger. Although Melchior was quick to repent on impulse, she gave herself to him with all her heart, thinking that he loved her as she loved him, and she was grateful to Melchior. As for her husband's subsequent change, she did not want to understand it at all. Unable to see the truth of the matter, she accepted it with humility and courage; a woman like her did not need to know life to live. Whatever she couldn't figure out, she asked God to explain. A peculiar kind of piety led her to regard all the wrongs she had received from her husband and others as the will of God, and to count only the good intentions of others for her. So her miserable life did not leave her with bitter memories; she only felt that her weak body had been spoiled by years of hard work without enough food. In the absence of Melchior, the flight of her two sons away from home, and the seeming no longer necessary to the other, she had lost all courage of action, and was in a state of fatigue and stupor. She is suffering from neurasthenia, which is often the case with hard-working people who lose the meaning of work when they are hit by accidents in old age. She couldn't get up the spirit to finish knitting the socks and smoke the things she was looking for? Tidying up, she didn't even have the strength to stand up and close the window: she sat there, her mind empty and exhausted, and she could only recall. She blushed at her old age and tried not to let her son notice it, while Christophe was too preoccupied with his own pain to notice anything. He was, of course, secretly impatient with the slowness with which his mother now moved and spoke; but, though it was very different from her old habits, he did not mind it. One day he caught his mother clutching rags in her hands, laying them on her knees,
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