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That lady clicked smoothly as Abel, metaphorically speaking, touched her. Louis Wilkottle, her cavalier, slipped away from her he could not tell how: he merely knew that Abel Newt was in attendance, vice Wilkottle, disappeared. So Wilkottle floated about the rooms upon limp pinions for sometime, wondering where to settle, and brushed Fanny Newt in flying. "Oh! Mr. Wilkottle, you are just the man.
Mr. Whitloe, Laura Magot, and I were just talking about Batrachian reptiles. Which are the best toads, the fattest?" "Or does it depend upon the dressing?" asked Mr. Whitloe. "Or the quantity of jewelry in the head?" said Laura Magot. Mr. Wilkottle smiled, bowed, and passed on. If they had called him an ass as they were ladies of the best position he would have bowed, smiled, and passed on.
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