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"Yesseh," said Narcisse, "now since you 'ave wemawk the mention of it, I think I have saw that va'iety of bwead." "Oh, surely you poundt to a-seedt udt. A uckly little prown dting" "But cook well," said Narcisse. "Yayss," drawled the baker. It was a fact that he had to admit. "An' good flou'," persisted the Creole. "Yayss," said the smiling manufacturer. He could not deny that either.
"An' honness weight!" said Narcisse, planting his empty cup in his saucer, with the energy of his asservation; "an', Mr. Bison, thass a ve'y seldom thing." "Yayss," assented Reisen, "ovver tat prate is mighdy dtry, undt shtickin' in ten dtroat." "No, seh!" said the flatterer, with a generous smile. "Egscuse me I diffeh fum you. 'Tis a beaucheouz bwead. Yesseh.
"I alvayss like to oplyche a yendleman," he smiled benignly, drew out a toothpick, and added, "ovver I nivveh bporrah or lend to ennabodda." "An' then," said Narcisse, promptly, "'tis imposs'ble faw anybody to be offended. Thass the bess way, Mr. Bison." "Yayss," said the baker, "I tink udt iss." As they were parting, he added: "Ovver you vait dtill you see mine prate!" "I'll do it, seh! And, Mr.
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