A NIGHT AT THE AMAZON’s Chapter 5

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Description

Narration of a comedy of manners: interior monologues, dialogues in American, French and English dialects.

Vocal Characteristics

Language

English

Accents

British (Received Pronunciation - RP, BBC) French (Parisienne)

Transcript

Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
douches Duclair Milton Air with a pleasure to see you again, exhales over Al in a single rehearsed breath. I divorced six years ago, declares a little bit raising her Lauren yet to see who it waas that addressed her as clear mountain air. I have Bean Gamel again for six years. Call me Duchess if you like, but I am Elizabeth DiCamillo, my dear Oh ****, the philosopher of feminism is close to tears. It is her umpteenth gaffe of the day. She's beginning to feel truly miserable and clumsy shame and mortification or turning her face Purple Filmer would points this out to Juna, and they share a chuckle. Seeing all ****'s distress, Lilley seems to soften her tone. Don't worry. Oh ****, you mustn't get so upset. Clamato now is what my path female cause me to. Perhaps the name Clear Mountain Air is more impressive. Or perhaps it's more musical. And to think that the name Grandma goes all the way back to all he cat. But that's my deer all **** would not interested likes of my perfumer or perhaps you either, for that matter not to be counted among your friends, Duchess one might as well Sign one's own death warrant murmurs on clay shell map. He is smiling, unctuous Lee as he pretends to defend ol, who is now on the verge of tears. But his only really goal is to provoke Elizabeth friendship, asks Elizabeth. No such thing exists, and you are the very proof that it doesn't. Of course, we all like to believe in the loyalty of friends. And then one day the telephone snaps you in the face with the naked truth. You find yourself listening idly on the line while waiting for the operator, and you suddenly realize that this very friend is on the line with someone else and talking about you and saying the worst things imaginable. That's why I don't have a telephone, says Natalie, joining the conversation. A letter is much safer. Discreet, a letter will not warm. It's way uninvited into the house is beginning to gasp for breath. Whoever gets up to find her a glass of water, everyone is squirming to learn what Orwell could possibly have said about the duchess on the telephone and to whom. But as far as Elizabeth is concerned, the matter's closed, even if not for gotten. These things pass very quickly, Elizabeth says languidly assessing. Overall, it was gasping on the sofa, surrounded by well wishes. Hers is an acute condition. First the temperature rises and it obviously has nowhere to go but down. The whole affair gets filed away for everyone's benefit under s for scandal. And then we move on to another subject, such as Wasn't Paris a blazing inferno? Today, Elizabeth the camels eyes are blue with green flex the color of oysters. Her brothers used to say she, too, has sacrificed her locks to fashion, and now she wears her hair short or lips or thin. She is elegant and gray. When Elizabeth speaks, she never has to pause to search for words. They're always at the ready, crouching in her mouth for just the right moment to leap out and attack. She is not beautiful, but she has the charm of eternal youth, and I am young. She likes to confirm I am only 51 for naturally, Elizabeth has abandoned one husband and two daughters with Natalie. She has traveled the whole world over on their return from the United States. Two years ago, Colette had collected them at the station. You two look like your fresh back from a honeymoon, she had exclaimed in Elisabetta. Natalie. Colette said she could see the intelligence inbreeding of the Old World, paired in perfect harmony with out of the new or L has recovered her pink colors back and her heavy bangs air once again drooping over her eyebrows down to her enormous, mascara lined eyes. You poor woman, Hoover Jihadi Angelou are all trying to comfort her is not one to bask in sympathy. A poor woman is no woman at all, not even half a woman. And I am not week, Thank you very much. I am just fine. Bert stumbles by still carrying the tray. She cannot keep from staring at the guests. Her eyes grow wide with innocents and wonder. She's trying to work out what happened while she was in the kitchen with Maria the cookies, now taking great gulps of wine directly from the bottle and refuses to give it up. I have no idea what to do