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"O printemps sans pitie, dans l'ame endolorie, Avec tes chants d'oiseaux, tes brises, ton azur, Tu creuses sourdement, conspirateur obscur, Le gouffre des langueurs et de la reverie." Of all the hours of the day, in fine weather, the afternoon, about 3 o'clock, is the time which to me is most difficult to bear.
"Quand on conspi-re, Quand sans frayeur On pent se di-re Conspirateur, Pour tout le mon-de Il faut avoir Perruque blon-de Et collet noir Perruque blon-de Et collet noir." "That's how the King of the Birds sings," the Shadow said, as he finished, throwing back his head, and laughing with all his might at his own imitation. "So funny, isn't it? It's exactly like the song of the pink-crested parrot."
"Peggy, I am surprised at you!" said Margaret. "Hush this moment, or I will let your head drop!" "Quand on conspire, sans frayeur Il faut se faire conspirateur; Pour tout le monde il faut avoir Perruque blonde, et collet noir!"
I say he abides here, but I do not think he is resident above five months out of the twelve; he wanders from land to land, and spends some part of each winter in town: he frequently brings visitors with him when he comes to shire, and these visitors are often foreigners; sometimes he has a German metaphysician, sometimes a French savant; he had once a dissatisfied and savage-looking Italian, who neither sang nor played, and of whom Frances affirmed that he had "tout l'air d'un conspirateur."
And then, in the same cheery voice that Felix had heard on the first day he visited the King of Birds' hut, M. Peyron began, in very decent style, to pour forth the merry sounds of his rollicking song: "Quand on conspi-re, Quand sans frayeur On peut se di-re Conspirateur Pour tout le mon-de Il faut avoir Perruque blon-de Et collet noir."
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