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Updated: June 3, 2025
Aline say if all those intention' to her don't finizh righd there, she got to stop coming ad Mme. Alexandre. And of co'se! You see that, I su'pose?" "And where was young Dubroca in all this?" "Ah, another migsture! He was nowhere. Any'ow, tha'z how he feel; and those other three boy' they di'n' feel otherwise. You see? We coul'n' egsplain them anything ab-out Mlle.
Thorndyke-Smith, who was very pleasing every way, but in nothing more than in her praises of the Royal Street coterie. Next morning, in a hired car, she had Castanado and Mme. Dubroca, Beloiseau and Mme. Alexandre, not merely show but, as the ironworker said, pinching forefinger and thumb together in the air, "elucidate" to her, for hours, the vieux carré. The day's latter half brought Mlles.
Alexandre and son of De l'Isle and son of Dubroca." "Is that Mélanie, whom you all mention so often but whom I've never seen?" "Yes. Reason you don't see her But I'll tell you that. Mr. Chezter, that would make a beautyful story to go with those other' in that book of Mlle. Aline but of co'se by changing those name', and by preten'ing that happen' at Hong Kong, or Chicago, or Bogota.
The holiday "everything shut up" had arrived. No carrier was abroad. Neither reason given for the joy-ride held good. Yet the project was well on foot. The smaller car was at the De l'Isles' lovely gates, with monsieur in the chauffeur's seat, Mme. Alexandre at his side, and Dubroca close behind her. The larger machine stood at the opposite curb, with Beloiseau for driver, and Mme.
Not I al-lone perceive that, but Scipion also Castanado Dubroca. Mr. Chester, my dear sir, the pewblication of that book going to be heard roun' the worl'! Tha'z going produse an epoch, that book; yet same time a bes'-seller!" Mademoiselle beamed. "Does Mr. Chester think 'twill be that? A best-seller?" Chester couldn't prophesy that of any book. "They say not even a publisher can tell."
And here, besides her husband, were both M. and Mme. De l'Isle, Mme. Alexandre and Scipion Beloiseau. The seventh was M. Placide Dubroca, perfumer; a man of fifty or so, his black hair and mustache inclined to curl and his eyes spirited yet sympathetic.
Waiting here, you'll see them all." "Yes, and beside', I have some good news for you; news anyhow to me." The pair smiled brightly: "You 'ave another letter from Dubroca!" "Yes. He's again wounded and in hospital." "Oh-h, terrible! tha'z to you good news?" "Yes. Look, monsieur; he has, at the front, the chance to be hit so many times.
Half of his own he had had to give, at his other elbow, to her aunt Yvonne; half of Aline's had gone to Dubroca. The other half into half of his was but half a half and that had to be halved by a quarter coming from the two nearest across the table, one of whom was Mlle. Corinne, whose queries always required thought. "Mr.
"I should advise that we gather together as many such old narratives as we can find, especially such as can be related to one another " "They need not be ril-ated!" cried Dubroca. "We are not ril-ated, and yet see! Ril-ated? where you are goin' to find them, ril-ated?" "Royal Street!" Scipion retorted. "Royal Street is pave' with old narration'!"
Enlivened by the high art they had been enjoying and by the fresh night air, a full half-dozen came in: M. and Mme. De l'Isle, whom the others had chanced upon as they left the theatre; Dubroca and his wife; Mme. Alexandre; and finally Beloiseau.
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