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She looked as though she were ready to. And they say it's easier every time." "C'est le second mari qui coute," paraphrased Cuthbert, tossing his cigar over the balustrade. The strains of a waltz floated out of the windows, the groups at the tables broke up, and the cotillon began.
I do not part with it for money. All the while she talked to you, I never took my eyes from her face, and I struck while the iron was hot. Mon Dieu, mais die est superbe! C'est une déesse veritable! Rien non plus!" In ecstatic moments Michael deserted English altogether for the natural language of the emotions; and Quita flashed a glance of amusement at Garth. "The pedestal already, you see!"
"L'eau, qui s'y trouve ordinairement en assez grande abondance, en détacha, extraha d'un et l'autre, et les combina après tous les deux ensemble. Cette même eau les dissout derechef, et en fait de nouvelles combinaisons. C'est ce qu'on voit évidemment l
One day he may be called upon to break bounds, to renounce the national tradition, deny the preeminence of his country, question the sufficiency of Poussin and the perfection of Racine, or conceive it possible that some person or thing should be more noble, reverend, and touching than his mother. On that day the Frenchman will turn back. "C'est inadmissible."
Machinery, indeed, rolled the quadrant-shaped sections of each column and riveted their flanges together with hydraulic hammers; great steam-derricks dropped each on its appointed seat; and the main tasks of manual labor in either building were painting, glazing, floor-laying and erecting the ground-wall of masonry, from five to seven feet high, that fills in the outer columns all round to a level with the heads of theorists who, holding that la propriété c'est le vol, assert the propriety of theft.
"C'est si consolant chez les Protestants, l'enterrement des morts," people were heard to say, and let us hope that the cure and the mayor were punished for their folly by a few conversions among their flocks to Protestantism. A mediaeval writer, Francois de Belleforest, thus describes Besancon:
I brought a tiny bunch of lilies of the valley, which Louis had gathered in the all-producing hothouse. "Merci, merci," he said. "Les fleurs! C'est la vie parfumee." Waiting for the breakfast to be served, he showed us about in his apartment. In the salon, rather primly furnished, stood the grand piano.
"Is that Isidore?" I asked, in a somewhat fierce whisper. She pushed up her lip, smiled, and nodded. "Is that Isidore?" I repeated, giving her a shake: I could have given her a dozen. "C'est lui-meme," said she. "How coarse he is, compared with the Colonel-Count! And then oh ciel! the whiskers!" Dr. John now passed on. "The Colonel-Count!" I echoed.
After every dish was sent in, she would come and look on at the dinner for a while, with puckered, blinking eyes. "C'est bon, n'est-ce pas?" she would say; and when she had received a proper answer, she disappeared into the kitchen.
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