She sings better perhaps. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. Would Gerald wish his friend to follow the man? He had hardly registered the decision that he had best do so, albeit with some reluctance, when his trained senses alerted him to an extraordinary circumstance. ‘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. She wallowed for a time in the thought of Capes, unable to escape from his image and the idea of his presence in her life.
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