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She spoke English with scarcely any accent. Occasionally she arranged her phrases in an oddly foreign way; but her pronunciation could not be criticised. Old Dolliver, the stage driver, grinned broadly as he closed the door. "Ye allus make me feel like a Frenchman myself, when ye say 'moosher, Ma'mzell," he chuckled. "You are going to Briarwood Hall, then, my young ladies?" said Miss Picolet.
"I leave ye in good hands," he said, with a hoarse chuckle. "This here lady is one o' yer teachers, Ma'mzell Picolet." He pronounced the little lady's name quite as outlandishly as he did "mademoiselle." It sounded like "Pickle-yet" on his tongue. "That will do, M'sieur Dolliver," said the little lady, rather tartly. "I may venture to introduce myself is it not?" She did not raise her veil.
There was being helped into the coach by the roughly dressed and bewhiskered driver, the little, doll-like, foreign woman whom they thought had been left behind at Portageton. "There ye air, Ma'mzell!" this old fellow said. "An' here's yer bag an' yer umbrella an' yer parcel. All there, be ye? Wal, wal, wal! So I got two more gals fer Briarwood; hev I?"
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