He came to her and stood before her, waiting, the morning light dazzling his eyes. It is Thérèse. Lucy kicked her side, then her wounded leg, dislodging her. ‘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. If there is any drinking, I'll do it.
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