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Updated: May 3, 2025
Mark Waring, in the loneliness of his dreary chambers, gnashed his teeth in bitterness of envy; for he guessed who would be the chief mourner. Arnaud de Châteaumesnil's remark was characteristic. Hearing that his old opponent had fallen in the front of the battle, he struck his hand impatiently on his own crippled limbs, muttering "Sang-dieu! Il avait toujours la main heureuse."
Even if we must die, let us die becomingly, not shrieking like butchered geese." A dozen men raised their voices angrily against him in defence of the women he had slighted. But he waved them impatiently away. "Is this an hour in which to fall a-quarrelling among ourselves?" he exclaimed. "Or do you think it one in which a man can stop to choose his words? Sang-dieu!
Ohe! innkeeper! the hair which is not on the heads of your hussies one finds in your omelettes. Old woman! I like bald omelettes. May the devil confound you! A fine hostelry of Beelzebub, where the hussies comb their heads with the forks! "Et je n'ai moi, Par la sang-Dieu! Ni foi, ni loi, Ni feu, ni lieu, Ni roi, Ni Dieu."*
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