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Her lifeless fingers touched the warm, young face, wet with tears. "Petite Jeanne!" "Your own Jeanne come back to you. Oh, Pani, you are cold and there is no fire. And all this dreary time but the good God has sent me back, and I shall stay always, always " She ran and opened the shutter. The traces of Pani's careful housekeeping were gone.
'Your room will always be ready, she added. 'Ayez la bonte seulement de m'envoyer une petite ligne d'avance. 'There's only fifteen minutes, interrupted her husband, 'and it's uphill all the way. They trundled off along the dusty road, already hot in the early July sun.
It was Madame la Comtesse, who had come there to settle her husband's business with Madame Bertrand. Both looked up as the landlady came into the room, half carrying, half dragging Madelon. "Pauvre petite! pauvre petite!" she kept on saying, shaking and nodding her kind old head the while.
It is poetry not for the people, but for a confined circle, for courtiers, great lords and erudite persons, people who desire to be humoured, to gratify a certain refined voluptuousness they have in them. Ronsard loves, or dreams that he loves, a rare and peculiar type of beauty, la petite pucelle Angevine, with golden hair and dark eyes.
He began by arguing that it was never when to act in the face of custom, and that he had only known of two ladies who had followed their husbands to the wars, and both them only belonged to the petite noblesse, and were no precedent for me! One of them had actually joined her husband when wounded and made prisoner, and it was said that her care had saved his life!
I ought to have left you when I knew that la petite was become your fiancée." For the first time Mordaunt broke his silence. "Why not have told me the truth?" Bertrand raised his shoulders. "I did not feel myself at liberty to tell you. Afterwards, I found that her eyes had been opened, and she was afraid for you to know. It did not seem an affair of great importance, and I let it pass.
They gave her "La Petite Fadette." She had read of George Sand in newspapers, which had called her a "corrupter of youth." She hurried home with her book, eager to test its corrupting qualities, and when, with locked doors and infinite labor, she had managed to read it, she was greatly disappointed at finding in it nothing to admire and nothing to shudder at.
There was a jolly small party at one of the tables that drew many eyes. Miss Carrington, petite, marvellous, bubbling, electric, fame-drunken, shall be named first. Herr Goldstein follows, sonorous, curly-haired, heavy, a trifle anxious, as some bear that had caught, somehow, a butterfly in his claws. Next, a man condemned to a newspaper, sad, courted, armed, analyzing for press agent's dross every sentence that was poured over him, eating his
And the philosopher titillated his nostril until he sneezed again and again. "And the Doctor," continued Papiol, "does he suspect nothing?" "Nothing. He has counselled me to make what amends I may by marrying you know whom." "Pardieu! he is a good innocent, that old friend of yours!" "Better than you or I, Papiol." "Cela va sans dire, mon ami. And la petite, the little bright-eyes, what of her?"
Petite Reine's face was very pale and grave; a delicate face, in its miniature feminine childhood almost absurdly like the Seraph's; her eyes were full of plaintive wonder and of pathetic reproach. "Ah!" she said, drooping her head with a sigh; "it is no good to you because it is such a little; do let me ask for more!" He smiled, but the smile was very weary.
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