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M'sieur Morin, he leave thoze li'l peezes papier in those table, and say ver' much 'bout money thass hard for me to ond'stan. Mais I never see those money again. Thass ver' wicked man, M'sieur Morin. H'what you call those peezes papier, M'sieur Robbin' bon!" Robbins explained.
"What's the poor thing called?" someone inquired of the sentry. The sentry, being an Irishman, mistook the idiom. "He's called a Bull," said he, stroking the barrel of his rifle. "H'what the divvle else?" "But 'tis the man we mean." "Oh, he's called Letcher; sergeant; North Wilts." Letcher gulped down a mouthful of water and managed to sit up, pushing the butcher's arm aside.
Tell me is this a Grimm's fairy tale, or should I consult an oculist?" At his words, Madame Tibault and Dumars approached. "H'what you say?" said madame, cheerily. "H'what you say, M'sieur Robbin? Bon! Ah! those nize li'l peezes papier! One tam I think those w'at you call calendair, wiz ze li'l day of mont' below. But, no.
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