‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. The open books she knew by heart; aye, they had been ground into her, morning and night. Her white shirt was ridiculously utilitarian, but fitted in all the right places, he smirked. “So you’re the one my son has been talking about. Such a time that it takes for them to go. .
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