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Updated: May 29, 2025
When I first came, it would happen once and again that a blunt German would clap me on the shoulder, and ask me to run a race; or a riotous Labassecourienne seize me by the arm and drag me towards the playground: urgent proposals to take a swing at the "Pas de Geant," or to join in a certain romping hide-and-seek game called "Un, deux, trois," were formerly also of hourly occurrence; but all these little attentions had ceased some time ago ceased, too, without my finding it necessary to be at the trouble of point-blank cutting them short.
I answered in mine. She rang, ere long, for aid; which arrived in the shape of a "maitresse," who had been partly educated in an Irish convent, and was esteemed a perfect adept in the English language. A bluff little personage this maitresse was Labassecourienne from top to toe: and how she did slaughter the speech of Albion! However, I told her a plain tale, which she translated.
Where an English girl of not more than average capacity and docility would quietly take a theme and bind herself to the task of comprehension and mastery, a Labassecourienne would laugh in your face, and throw it back to you with the phrase, "Dieu, que c'est difficile! Je n'en veux pas. Cela m'ennuie trop."
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