‘Of course not,’ snapped his friend. ’ Gerald moved to the long sofa, dusted it with elaborate care with one of its cushions, and with a gesture invited her to sit down. His assistance came too late. ‘I said you were sympathique,’ she told him. ‘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 locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had. They don’t know who did it, actually.
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