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14 Gentlemen violinists!

Macaroons, lemon-drink…

Ah! I fear me she is coquettish, and over nice and fastidious! I, who am so poor of wit, how dare I speak to her—how address her? This language that they speak to-day—ay, and write—confounds me; I am but an honest soldier, and timid withal. She has ever her place, there, on the right—the empty box, see you!

I must go.

Nay, stay.

I cannot. D'Assoucy waits me at the tavern, and here one dies of thirst.

Orange drink!