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Updated: June 13, 2025
People always liked her if she let herself go. She would let herself go more in future at Waldstrasse. It was so jolly being at Waldstrasse. "Qu'est-ce que vous avez?" appealed Mademoiselle, laughing at the door with open face. Miriam continued her trot.
She put her hands on his shoulders and bent to his ear. The sulphur-colored winged Paul Pry stuck an impertinent head out from behind a palm leaf. "Qu'est-ce qu'elle dit? Qu'est-ce qu'elle dit?" For the second and last time in his adult life the beetle man threw a stone at a bird.
Camille suppressed a yawn. "I don't know. Qui vivra verra." He was glad when they were all gone, Gontrand and Tor di Rocca and the rest, and he could stretch himself and sigh, and sing at the top of his voice: "'Nicholas, je vais me pendre Qu'est-ce que tu vas dire de cela? Si vous vous pendez ou v'vous pendez pas Ça m'est ben egal, Mam'zelle.
The breeze whispered in the tree-tops. A sulphur-yellow bird, of French extraction, perched in a flowering bush, insistently demanded: "Qu'est-ce qu'il dit? Qu'est-ce qu'il dit?" What's he say? WHAT'S he say? over and over again, becoming quite wrathful because neither he nor any one else offered the slightest reply or explanation. The girl sympathized with the bird.
Two new and important works, ethically related to this, have just been issued; the one in France, called Qu'est-ce que la Religion, d'après la Nouvelle Philosophie Allemande, wherein Feuerbach's daring evolutions of Hegel's principles are translated for the benefit of those who cannot read German; the other, called The Progress of Intellect, showing the various developments of religious ideas through history.
Why didn't they move? There was the National Guard keeping on presenting arms, the little drummers going on rub-dub-dub rub-dub-dub in the same steady, slow way, and the Procession never moved an inch. There was evidently, to use an elegant phrase, a hitch somewhere. Fat priest "Taisez-vous." Little drummer Rub-dub-dub rub-dub-dub rub-dub-dub, &c. Drum-major "Qu'est-ce donc?"
The girl turned amazed and amused eyes upon him. "What on earth ails the poor man?" she inquired of all creation. "I told you. I I'm shy." "Not really! I thought it was a joke." "Qu'est-ce qu'il dit? Qu'est-ce qu'il dit?" demanded the yellow- breasted inquisitor, from his flowery perch. "What does he say? He says he's shy. Poor poo er young, helpless thing!"
"Ah! qu'il est heureux. Et Cupidon où est-il?" "II est ici, au coin, madame. Il boude." "Qu'est-ce qu'il a fait donc?" "Ah, madame! Il a volé le dindon rôti, et l'a tout mangé." "Ah, le petit polisson! Venez ici, Cupidon."
He misunderstood me, seized the trunk indicated, and was about to hoist it on the vehicle. "Let that alone will you?" said a voice in good English; then, in correction, "Qu'est-ce que vous faites donc? Cette malle est a moi."
I am coming!" floated up every single noise dropped Rockyfeller shot out his hand for the candle, seized it in terror, blew it out as if blowing it out were the last thing he would do in this life and The Enormous Room hung silent; enormously dark, enormously expectant.... BANG! Open the door. "Alors, qui, m'appelle? Qu'est-ce qu'on a foutu ici."
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