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You don' wan' come ad 'er 'ouse, eh? an' you don' wan' her to come ad yo' bureau. You know, 'Sieur Frowenfel', she drez the hair of Clotilde an' mieself. So w'en she tell me dad, I juz say, 'Palmyre, I will sen' for Proffis-or Frowenfel' to come yeh; but I don' thing 'e comin'. You know, I din' wan' you to 'ave dad troub'; but Clotilde ha, ha, ha!
"Proffis-or Frowenfel', good-day! Teg a cha'." She laughed. It was the pure joy of existence. "You's well? You lookin' verrie well! Halways bizzie? You fine dad agriz wid you' healt', 'Sieur Frowenfel'? Yes? Ha, ha, ha!" She suddenly leaned toward him across the arm of her chair, with an earnest face. "'Sieur Frowenfel', Palmyre wand see you.
How's Honoré? Tell me what has happened. Remember, I've been away five months." "No; I am verrie glad dat I sole 'er. What? Ha! I should think so! If it have not had been fo' dat I would not be married to-day. You think I would get married on dat sal'rie w'at Proffis-or Frowenfel' was payin' me?
"And have she and her daughter actually got the money?" "She an' heh daughtah ac shilly got-'at-money-sir! W'at? Dey livin' in de rue Royale in mag-niffycen' style on top de drug-sto' of Proffis-or Frowenfel'." "But how, over Frowenfeld's, when Frowenfeld's is a one-story " "My dear frien'! Proffis-or Frowenfel' is moove!
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