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The bloodless faces lying back here and there on wrecks of armour showed pale in the light of the great funeral-pile; tears provoked tears, the sobs became shriller, the recognitions and embracings more frantic. Women stretched themselves on the corpses, mouth to mouth and brow to brow; it was necessary to beat them in order to make them withdraw when the earth was being thrown in.
"What! do you ask me whether it concerns me or does not concern me, if M. Colbert pleases to make a funeral-pile of my house?" "So ho, your house was it your house they wanted to burn?" "Pardieu! was it!" "Is the cabaret of the Image-de-Notre-Dame yours, then?" "It has been this week."
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