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Updated: May 24, 2025
"Yass," Manouvrier mused aloud once more, "I think I build my ole woman one fine house." "Ah! I don't want!" "But yass! Foudre tonnerre! how I goin' spend her else? w'iskee? hosses? women? what da dev'l! Naw, I build a fine 'ouse. You see! she want dat house bad enough when she see her. Yass; fifty t'ousan' dollah faw house and twenty-five t'ousan'" he whisked his thumb at me and I said for him,
"I never see so many people since I lef Quebec," he was saying. "She's jus' lak' beeg city mus' be t'ree, four t'ousan' people. Every day some more dey come, an' all night dey dance an' sing an' drink w'iskee. Ba gosh, dat's fine place!" "Are there lots of white women?" asked the girl. "Yes, two, t'ree hondred. Mos' of dem is work in dance-halls. Dere's one fine gal I see, name' Marie Bourgette.
Burrell wrenched his arm free and turned on Doret a face that remained long in the Frenchman's memory, a face suffused with fury and convulsed like that of a sprinter at the finish of a race. The two men stared at each other over the fallen figure for a brief moment, until the soldier gained mastery of himself and sheathed his weapon, when Poleon smiled. "I spoil' a quart of good w'iskee on you.
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