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Rh

My poor Cyrano!—We must not tell this

To Roxane suddenly.—What said this leech?—

Said,—what, I know not—fever, meningitis!— Ah! could you see him—all his head bound up!— But let us haste!—There's no one by his bed!—

And if he try to rise, Sir, he might die!

Come! Through the chapel! 'Tis the quickest way.

Monsieur le Bret!

Le Bret goes—when I call! 'Tis some new trouble of good Ragueneau's.