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Updated: July 6, 2025
"Well, man" the farmer seemed nettled "why not speak out and say thou art promised to old Lesage's daughter?" "Because I am not promised to her." Marie stifled a sob. It seemed as if her heart could not much longer hold in its agitation, she longed so intensely for the farmer's next question and for Léon's answer. "Art thou promised to the beauty of the market, the little Marie?"
If you wish to give me a real proof of friendship, have the kindness to write out for me such an abstract, and I shall have a hemispherical map colored for myself accordingly and add it to Lesage's Atlas, since, in view of my residence abroad for so much of the year, I am compelled to think more and more of my general need of a compendious and tabulated traveling library.
Lesage's mouth opened, and he stood staring with his knees bent and his spread-fingered hands up, the most hideous picture of fear that I have ever seen. 'You, Charles, you! he stammered, hawking up each word. 'Yes, me, said the other, smiling grimly. 'A police agent all the time! You who were the very soul of our society! You who were in our inmost council! You who led us on!
There is not any plot to speak of in Lesage's "Gil Blas," and just as little in Thackeray's "Vanity Fair," and only a very bad one in Goldsmith's "Vicar of Wakefield."
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