Conceive to yoursilf, my frien', she slip on orange peels in ze streets and whacks comes she down.

Tree year back--yis--tree year.

Celestine Durand, mon fil." Jennings wondered.

"But she says she is Spanish." Le Beau flipped a pinch of snuff in the air.

"Ah, bah! She no Spain." "So she is French," murmured Jennings to himself.
"Ah, non; by no means," cried the Frenchman unexpectedly.