I do not like the look of the company.
They may be French, and this is a testimonial in their favor, but I am afraid it is the only one.
Three facetious bagmen exercise their wit by puzzling the waiter with low French slang.
I think I will remove from here to-morrow.
I go to my bedroom, and try to open the window and have a look at the street. I discover the trick.
How like guillotines are these English windows!
I pull up the bottom part of mine, and look out. This threatening thing about my neck makes me uncomfortable. I withdraw.
English windows are useful, no doubt, but it is evident that the people of this country do not use them to look out in the street and have a quiet chat à la française.
Probably the climate would not allow it.
