Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. “I opened my eyes, and she was bending over my bedside. ‘There is Bernadette, Marie-Thérèse, Marie-Joséphine, Marie-Claire, Henriette—’ Exasperated, Gerald seized her by the shoulders. “My sister is sure to be out. " "And all the time you loved her?"—appalled.
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