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"Ce sont des fleurs etranges, Et traitresses, avec leurs airs de sceptres d'anges, De thyrses lumineux pour doigts de seraphins, Leurs parfums sont trop forts, tout ensemble, et trop fins." "It is strange," she thought, "that I should have corresponded so many months with 'Gys Grandit' through my admiration for his books and that he should turn out to be the son of poor Abbe Vergniaud! Cyrillon!
And the dark hair which closely covered his well-shaped head was drenched with eau de quinine. Gillier was not a gentleman. His father was a small vinegrower and cultivator, who had been rather disgusted by the fugues of his eldest son, but who was now resigned to the latter's étranges folies.
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