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At home, if I grew tired of talking to one, I could talk to another. If I waxed weary of Bobby's sea-tales, I might refresh myself with listening to the Brat's braggings about Oxford with Tou Tou's murdered French lesson: J'aime, I love. Tu aimes, Thou lovest. Il aime, He loves. How many thousand years ago, the labored conjugation of that verb seems to me!
"You know," say I, still hesitatingly, "I have not an idea how well off you are; I mean, how much a year you have. "Well, it is to be hoped so," he answers, a gleam of amusement flashing like a little sunshiny arrow across his vexation; "it would be a bad lookout for you and me, would not it, considering the size of our appetites, if we should not?" A little pause. Tou Tou's voice again.
Every thing reminds me of that day: these might be the same crocus-clumps, as those that last year frightened away winter with their purple and gold banners. I remember that, as I looked down their deep throats, I was humming Tou Tou's verb, "J'aime, I love; Tu aimes, Thou lovest; Il aime, He loves." I sigh.
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