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"Your first visit to Rouen, I suppose?" said he. "Beautiful old city, is it not? Garçon, a pint of Bordeaux-Leoville." I modestly admitted that it was not only my first visit to Rouen, but my first to the Continent. "Ah, you may go farther than Rouen, and fare worse," said he. "Do you sketch? No?
My friend to the right flashed one glance of silent scorn upon the future author, drained the last glass of his Bordeaux-Leoville, pushed his chair impatiently back, and said: "This place smells like a kitchen. Will you come out, and have a cigar?" So we rose, took our hats, and in a few moments were strolling under the lindens on the Quai de Corneille.
Nodding paternally to the coat of Prussian blue, I proceeded to order Bordeaux-Léoville, capon with Tarragon sauce, compôte of nectarines in Madeira jelly all superfluous, for I was brutally hungry, and wanted chops and coffee; but what will not an unsupported candidate for respectability do when he desires to assert his caste?
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