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The young man greeted him with refined courtesy, and the Doctor anxious to show him that he understood French, addressed him in what he supposed to be that language, a smattering of which he had picked up as far back as the time of the Emperor Napoleon I. "Vooz-ate oon medesen, monshoo?" "Oui, monsieur, mon collègue." "The Devil is your collègue, I am not! Vooe-ate oon magnetizoor, monshoo?"
"Oui mon cher bonhomme." "Zate oon sharlatanery, monshoo!" "Comme toute la médecine, monsieur." Dr. Sarkantyús put both hands behind his back, measured the young man first from head to foot, and then from foot to head, scratched his own head violently, and retreated precipitately. And now Széphalmi rejoined the stranger, and begged him to come in and see the invalid.
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