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"Hist! mon lieutenant!" whispered the old mariner, unwilling to expose the drowsiness of his young superior to the gaze of the common men; "mon lieutenant 'tis I, Antoine." "Eh! bah! Oh, Antoine, est-ce-que toi? Bon what would you have, mon ami?" "I hear the surf, I think, mon lieutenant. Listen is not that the water striking on the rocks of the shore?" "Jamais!
Some insistent ones pounded on the door of a restaurant far in the distance. "Dites donc, patron! Nous avons faim, nom de Dieu! Est-ce-que tout le monde est mort ici?" "Only a host of phantom listeners, That dwelt in the lone house then, Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight To that voice from the world of men." It was that kind of silence, profound, tense, ghostlike.
I asked sarcastically, when the testimony was complete. Monsieur le Ministre was evidently rather uncomfortable. He writhed a little in his chair, and tweaked his chin three or four times. The rosette and the moustache were exchanging animated phrases. At last Noyon, motioning for silence and speaking in an almost desperate tone, demanded: "Est-ce-que vous detestez les boches?"
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