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Updated: August 17, 2024
I said this to my father, who spit his curse in my face; to my mother, who set to weeping and chattering, poor old lady, like yonder fagot on the and-irons. Long live mirth! I am a real Bicetre. Waitress, my dear, more wine. I have still the wherewithal to pay. I want no more Surene wine. It distresses my throat. I'd as lief, corboeuf! gargle my throat with a basket."
Here I remain shattered and forsaken nothing but an old broken foot stove that nobody cares for. I hope that those stout, good-looking and-irons will now tell their story. They look to me just as upright and stiff and strong as when I first saw them in our dear master's chimney corner.
From the brown beams overhead were suspended strings of onions, tin vessels, bridles, dried venison, and a thousand other things, mingled in inextricable confusion. In the wide fire-place, which was supplied with stones for and-irons, a portion of the lately slaughtered deer was broiling on an impromptu and primitive species of gridiron, which would have disgusted Soyer and astonished Vatel.
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