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“Dat Sampson, he one leet dev’,” proffered Marie Louise, with laudable design of shifting blame upon the easy shoulders of Sampson, in event of the domestic jar which she anticipated. “No use try do nuttin’ ’id Sampson, M’sieur.” “I had to know something, one way or the other,” Fanny said in a tone which carried apology, rather by courtesy than by what she considered due.
Here was no forgiveness to be asked of dulled senses. No bending in expiation of faults committed. He was here as master. “Fanny, what does this mean?” he asked in cold anger; with no heat now, no passion. “Yaas, me tell madame, she goin’ fur ketch cole si she don’ mine out. Dat not fur play dat kine wedder, no. Teck chair, M’sieur; dry you’se’f leet beet. Me mek you one cup coffee.”
“M’sieur look lak he not please,” said Marie Louise, with plain regret at the turn of affairs. “You see he no lak you go out in dat kine wedder, me know dat.” “Oh, bother,” was Fanny’s careless reply. “This suits me well enough; I don’t care how long it lasts.” She was in Marie Louise’s big rocker, balancing comfortably back and forth with a swing that had become automatic.
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