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The following winter, I went into a café newly established in the Rue Poissonière, and was agreeably surprised to see Sophie, the pseudo-princess, sitting behind the counter in magnificent toilette, receiving the bows and the money of the customers as they passed before her, whilst M. Jerome exactly in appearance as before, except that prosperity had begun to round him was leaning against a pillar in rather a melodramatic attitude, a white napkin gracefully depending from his hand.
The latter seemed to be disturbed about something, and there was no mistaking the solicitous air with which they regarded their leader. The pseudo-princess was patient as long as possible and then broke into the discussion. "What do they want?" she demanded in English. "They are asking for instructions," he answered. "Instruct them to do as I bid," she said.
"Dey's de queeres' lot o' tramps Ah eveh did see, an' Ah wouldn' trust 'em 's fer as Ah could heave a brick house." "But the leader is such a very courteous gentleman," remonstrated Beverly. "Yas, ma'am; he mussa came f'm Gawgia or Kaintuck," was Aunt Fanny's sincere compliment. The pseudo-princess dined with the vagabonds that night.
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