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"Monsieur," says a peruquier in the Palais Royal, with the look of a man who lets you into a profound secret in science, "Notre art est un art imitatif; en effèt, c'est un des beaux arts;" then taking up a London-made wig, and twirling it round on his finger, with a look of ineffable contempt, "Celui ci n'est pas la belle nature; mais voici la mienne, c'est la nature personifiée!"
My dear Sir, La destruction a atteint son terme, l'oeuvre de reconstruction commence. Elle sera tres difficile, mais je n'en desespere pas, et j'y prendrai quelque part sans sortir de ma cellule. Quelle vie que la mienne!
A Christian is a Christian, let him live or die where he may." "That's not exactly platform, I fancy. Why, Lord bless ye, young lady, your religion, now, is no more like mine than my religion is like that of the Archbishop of Canterbury's, or Monsieur Rule's, here!" "La mienne!" exclaimed Raoul "I pretend to none, mon brave; there can be no likeness to nothing."
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