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"Miché, she's a lill' hangel!" exclaimed Madame Delphine, with a look of distress. "Yez; I teg kyah 'v 'er, lag my h-own. I mague you dad promise." "But" There was something still in the way, Madame Delphine seemed to think. The banker waited in silence. "I suppose you will want to see my lill' girl?" He smiled; for she looked at him as if she would implore him to decline.
The crystal of the lamp sent out a faint gleam; it grew; it spread on every side; the ceiling, the walls lighted up; the crucifix, the furniture of the room came back into shape. "Maman!" cried Olive, with a tremor of consternation. "It is Miché Vignevielle, my daughter "
The crystal of the lamp sent out a faint gleam; it grew; it spread on every side; the ceiling, the walls lighted up; the crucifix, the furniture of the room came back into shape. "Maman!" cried Olive, with a tremor of consternation. "It is Miché Vignevielle, my daughter"
"Olive, my child," whispered Madame Delphine one morning, as the pair were kneeling side by side on the tiled floor of the church, "yonder is Miché Vignevielle! If you will only look at once he is just passing a little in Ah, much too slow again; he stepped out by the side door."
He walked into the Café d'Italie, which, as everyone knows, is next to Mouton's, the pork shop, on the left-hand side of the Boul' Miche, as you go from the Seine; called for a boc, and then plunged into a game of dominoes with an art student in a magenta necktie, whom he had never met before, and whom, after the game, he would, a million to one, never meet again.
"Oh, Père Jerome! mo pas conné, I dunno. You know w'ere's dad 'ouse of Michè Jean Tomkin? Mo courri 'ci, mo courri l
Restaurants, cafés, studios, the Boul' Miche, and this little garret do they form a wholesome environment? Oh, no, no I am not a renegade. I am a Bohemian; I shall always be; it is bred in the bone. But my daughter ought she not to have the opportunity, at least, of being different, of being like other girls? You see, I had my father; she will have only me.
A shoe grated softly on the stone step, and Madame Delphine, her heart beating in great thuds, without waiting for a knock, opened the door, bowed low, and exclaimed in a soft perturbed voice: "Miché Vignevielle!" He entered, hat in hand, and with that almost noiseless tread which we have noticed.
But at length, one day in May, 1822, in a small private office behind Monsieur Vignevielle's banking-room, he sitting beside a table, and she, more timid and demure than ever, having just taken a chair by the door, she said, trying, with a little bashful laugh, to make the matter seem unimportant, and yet with some tremor of voice: "Miché Vignevielle, I bin maguing my will."
"Yé donné vingt cinq sous pou' manzé poulé." She. "Miché Igenne, dit dit dit " He. "Mo pas l'aimein ça!" She. "Miché Igenne, oap! oap! oap!" He. "Mo pas l'aimein ça!" She. "Miché Igenne, oap! oap! oap!" Frowenfeld was not so greatly amused as the ladies thought he should have been, and was told that this was not a fair indication of what he would see if there were ten dancers instead of one.
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