But that is not surprising; the child is so small.

You could put him in a wooden shoe! I am certain he doesn't weight more than sixteen ounces.

Milk, milk, milk.

Keep him always on your breast and you will save him." These last words were accompanied by a significant pressure of the fingers.

Disregarding the yellow flames flashing from the eyeholes of the count's mask, Beauvouloir uttered these words with the serious imperturbability of a man who intends to earn his money.
"Ho! ho! bonesetter, you are leaving your old felt hat behind you," said Bertrand, as the two left the bedroom together.
The reasons of the sudden mercy which the count had shown to his son were to be found in a notary's office.