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As the Englishwomen walked in a soft rustle could be heard up and down the lighted shed, for each half-hidden driver working by his car turned and shot a glance, expectant and mocking, towards the door. "Ben quoi, i'parait qu'c'esst vrai! Tu vois!" "Qu'est-ce qu'il dit, c'ui-la?" "C'est les Anglaises, pardi!" "Tu comprends, j'suis contre tout ca. I'y a des fois ou les femmes c'est bien.
What's this? My father is dead! Oh, well. The war is over. Good." It was Jean le Negre, playing a little game with himself to beguile the time. When we had mounted a la chambre, two or three tried to talk with this extraordinary personage in French; at which he became very superior and announced: "J'suis anglais, moi. Parlez anglais. Comprends pas francais, moi."
Finally he gradually uttered, with a thick accent, the following extremely impressive dictum: "C'est l'americain." I felt much pleased, and said "Oui, j'suis americain, Monsieur." He rolled half over backwards in his creaking chair with wonderment at such an unexpected retort.
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