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74 Rissoles!

Beef jelly!

Aurora's silver rays begin to glint e'en now on the copper pans, and thou, O Ragueneau! must perforce stifle in thy breast the God of Song! Anon shall come the hour of the lute!—now 'tis the hour of the oven! [''He rises. To a'' .] You, make that sauce longer, 'tis too short!

How much too short?

Three feet.

What means he ?

The tart!

The pie!