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At the end of the Mass the people filed out quietly, but at the church door they broke into volleys of rapid-fire French chatter of which Ruth could only catch a little here and there. "You will come by the fête, M'm'selle. You will not dance non, I s'pose. But you will eat, and you will see the fun they make, one jolie time! Till I ring the Vesper bell they will dance."
Can you tell me what time it begins?" "I shall ring the bell when I have put away your horse, M'm'selle." Now no earthly power could have made Arsene LaComb deviate a minute from the exact time for ringing that bell. But, he was a Frenchman. His manner intimated that the ringing of all bells whatsoever must await her convenience. He stepped forward jauntily to help her down.
We sell out everything on the option to him." "But," objected Ruth, trying to draw him out, "if Jeffrey Whiting should come back before then?" "He don' come back, that fellow." "How do you know?" "I know, I He don' come back. I tell you that." "Jeffrey Whiting will be here before nine o'clock to-morrow," she said, turning suddenly upon him. "Eh? M'm'selle, what you mean?
The spectacle of a smartly-dressed young lady whom he seemed to know vaguely, riding down the dusty street on a shiny yellow side saddle on the back of a big, vicious-looking black colt, made the little man reach hastily for his coat of ceremony. "M'm'selle Lansing!" he said, bowing in friendly pomp as Ruth drove up. "How do you do, Mr. LaComb? I came down to go to Mass.
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