“Perhaps. ‘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. It seems to me very silly. She had never even brought a friend home in her time at the Becks, let alone been asked on dates. “Have to go now. ‘You’re only making things worse, you little idiot. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six.
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