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Moore, George (George Augustus), 1852-1933

"Memoirs of My Dead Life"


"I'm not sure at all that mountain air would not do me good. Plessy
lies very low and is very relaxing."
"Very."
But though I convinced her that it would have been better if she had
gone at once to stop at Florac, I could do nothing to persuade her to
pass three days with me in the inn there. As we drove up through the
town the only hope that remained in my mind was that I might induce
her to take breakfast in a private room. But the _salle du
restaurant_ was fifty feet long by thirty feet wide, it contained a
hundred tables, maybe more, the floor was polished oak, and the
ceilings were painted and gilded, and there were fifty waiters waiting
for the swallows that would soon arrive from the north; we were the
van birds.
"Shall we breakfast in a private room?" I whispered humbly.
"Good heavens! no! I wouldn't dare to go into a private room before
all these waiters."
My heart sank again, and when Doris said, "Where shall we sit?" I
answered, "Anywhere, anywhere, it doesn't matter."
It had taken two hours for the horses to crawl up to the mountain
town, and as I had no early breakfast I was ravenously hungry. A box
of sardines and a plate of butter, and the prospect of an omelette and
a steak, put all thoughts of Doris for the moment out of my head, and
that was a good thing.


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