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Here Monsieur Moineau, a French emigre, and our Gallic tutor, cried out lustily, "You shall force that door, never jamais, jamais my pretty garcons, mes chers pupils, be good, be quiet go you couch yourselves les feux d'artifice! bah! they worth noding at all you go to bed.
Ah, ah, demain all have conge one two, half-holiday but you force this door par ma foi, e jamais you go out, one, two, three, four go over dis corps, of Antoine Auguste Moineau." We gave the brave fellow a hearty cheer for his loyalty; and, I have no doubt, had he he been allowed to remain, he would have been trampled to death on his post.
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