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Maloney lowered his jaw and opened his eyes. "Zhackly. Did'n' I, eh, ol' wom'n!" Dad mumbled, and dropped his chin on his chest. Maloney began to take another view of the matter. He put a leading question to Joe. "He MUSTER been bit," Joe answered, "'cuz he had the d-death adder in his hand." More silence. "Mush die 'fore shun'own," Dad murmured. Maloney was thinking hard. At last he spoke.
"I'm here with you, dear," she told him. "Are you my wife? Wan' wom'n beau-ful whi' shoulders! N'est ce pas? Parlez-vous Franshay, mam-selle? Ah oui, oui." "Louis, you mustn't, mustn't talk that beastly French, please," she sobbed. He thumped on the floor, staring round wildly with glazed eyes. There was a tap at the door. Marcella, glad of any diversion, went and opened it.
There was no reply; he continued: "Very worthy man, that Jake; knew him up in Tuolumne. Good feller-Jake." No response: the gentleman settled his hat still farther back, and continued with a trifle less exactness of speech: "I say, young wom'n, Jake was my pard in the mines. Goo' fell'r I 'bserved!" The last sentence was shot straight into the celestial ear at short range. It produced no effect.
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