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Traditore! What made me ever own that spawn of a hungry devil for our own blood! Thief, cheat, coward, liar other men can deal with that. But I was his uncle, and so . . . I wish he had poisoned me charogne!
Et la pauvre femme, demouree seulle, l'enterra le plus profond en terre qu'il fut possible; si est-ce que les bestes en eurent incontinent le sentyment, qui vindrent pour manger la charogne. Mais la pauvre femme, en sa petite maisonnette, de coups de harquebuze defendoit que la chair de son mary n'eust tel sepulchre.
So fiercely did Jan cry out the words that Thornton jerked back as though a blow had been struck at him from out of the gloom. "A child was born!" repeated Jan, and Thornton heard his nails digging in the table. "That was the first curse of God a child! La Charogne les betes de charogne that is what we call them beasts of carrion and carrion eaters, breeders of devils and sin!
"Will you care for the dogs, Henri?" asked Jean. "It's only a trifling sprain of the wrist, which Iowaka can cure with one dose of her liniment." As they walked away, Jan's face still as pallid as the gray snow under their feet, Gravois added: "You're a fool, Jan Thoreau. There's a crowd at your cabin, and you'll have dinner with me." "La charogne!" muttered Jan. "Les betes de charogne!"
"I have traveled far since leaving Lac Bain," he said. "I went first to Nelson House, and from here to the Wholdaia. I found them at Nelson House, but not on the Wholdaia." "What?" asked Jean, though he knew well what the other meant. "My brothers, Jean de Gravois," answered Jan, drawing his lips until his teeth gleamed in a sneering smile. "My brothers, les betes de charogne!"
"La charogne! There are two at Nelson House, and two on the Wholdaia, and one " A sharp cry fell from Jan's lips. When Croisset whirled toward him, he stood among his dogs, as white as death, his black eyes blazing as if just beyond him he saw something which filled him with terror. As the man turned, startled by the look, Jean sprang to his side.
And when I did show thee some poor verses of mine, French verses, for at this time I hated and had partly forgotten my native language "My dear Dayne, you always write about love, the subject is nauseating." "So it is, so it is; but after all Baudelaire wrote about love and lovers; his best poem...." "C'est vrai, mais il s'agissait d'une charogne et cela relève beaucoup la chose."
And when I did show thee some poor verses of mine, French verses, for at this time I hated and had partly forgotten my native language "My dear George Moore, you always write about love, the subject is nauseating." "So it is, so it is; but after all Baudelaire wrote about love and lovers; his best poem...." "C'est vrai, mais il s'agissait d'une charogne et cela relève beaucoup la chose."
At the sound of the heavy plop alongside horror held me rooted to the spot; but Dominic stepped quietly to the rail and leaned over, waiting for his nephew's miserable head to bob up for the first time. "Ohe, Cesar!" he yelled contemptuously to the spluttering wretch. "Catch hold of that mooring hawser charogne!" He approached me to resume the interrupted conversation. "What about Cesar?"
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