In the same way Gilberte, whom nonetheless I was asking, without quite realizing that this was what I was doing, to enable me to have friends who would be like she had once been, was no longer anything to me but Mme de Saint-Loup. I no longer thought, when I saw her, of the part played in my love for her, which she had also forgotten about, by my admiration for Bergotte, for Bergotte once again simply the author of his books, without my remembering (save in rare and entirely distinct moments of recollection) the emotion of having been presented to the man, the disappointment, the astonishment
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