"Travels in the North"鈥擲ir Alexander Mackenzie, 1803. 鈥楬ave I, indeed? You must have everything your own way. And how are the bluebells getting on?鈥? 中国福利彩票双色球2019121 鈥楬ave I, indeed? You must have everything your own way. And how are the bluebells getting on?鈥? They paused to admire the Renaissance Fontaine M茅dicis, set in startling contrast against the rugged background of rock, with its graceful balustrade and its medallion enclosing the bust of the worthy Pierre de Bourdeille, Abb茅 de Brant?me, the immortal chronicler of horrific scandals; and they crossed the Pont des Barris, and wandered by the quays where men angled patiently for deriding fish, and women below at the water鈥檚 edge beat their laundry with lusty arms; and so past the row of dwellings old and new huddled together, a decaying thirteenth-century house with its heavy corbellings and a bit of rounded turret lost in the masonry jostling a perky modern caf茅 decked with iron balconies painted green, until they came to the end of the bridge that commands the main entrance to the tiny water-girt town. They plunged into it with childlike curiosity. In the Rue de P茅rigueux they stood entranced before the shop fronts of that wondrous thoroughfare alive with the traffic of an occasional ox-cart, a rusty one-horse omnibus labelled 鈥淪ervice de Ville鈥?and some prehistoric automobile wheezing by, a clattering impertinence. For there were shops in Brant?me of fair pretension鈥攊s it not the chef lieu du Canton?鈥攁nd you could buy articles de Paris at most three years old. And there was a Pharmacie Internationale, so called because there you could obtain Pear鈥檚 soap and Eno鈥檚 Fruit salt; and a draper鈥檚 where were exposed for sale frilleries which struck Martin as marvellous, but at which Corinna curved a supercilious lip; and a shop ambitiously blazoned behind whose plate-glass windows could be seen a porcelain bath-tub and other adjuncts of the luxurious bathroom, on one of which, sole occupant of the establishment, a little pig-tailed girl was seated eating from a porringer on her knees; and there were all kinds of other shops including one which sold cabbages and salsifies and charcoal and petrol and picture postcards and rusty iron and vintage eggs and guano and all manner of fantastic dirt. And there was the Librairie de la Dordogne which smiled at you when you asked for devotional pictures or tin-tacks, but gasped when you demanded books. Martin and Corinna, however, demanded them with British insensibility and marched away with an armful of cheap reprints of French classics disinterred from a tomb beneath the counter. But before they went, Martin asked: 鈥淏e not afraid, Mademoiselle. Enter. What number?鈥? "I fear, Paul, that it has gone too far." I have been using the same bank branch for the lasteight years. From time to time, someone I've neverheard of before sends me a letter (spelling my namewrong) to tell me what a pleasure it is to have me as aspecial customer. No matter how hard they try toimprove their "personalized" service, however, banksare pretty much the same all over, and my bank is reallyno different from the rest. So why do I still bank thereeven though two new, competing banks have recentlyopened much closer to where I live? Convenience? Eighteen months passed. The Chief was in Quebec with Hannah and Abbie awaiting the arrival of Rug, who had been sent by his father to the Mother Land to dispose of two cargoes of timber. 鈥淚鈥檓 in no danger of Saint Lazare,鈥?replied Corinna drily. "Yes," he said, confidently. 鈥楬ave I, indeed? You must have everything your own way. And how are the bluebells getting on?鈥?