“Have you turned him yet?” Michelle whispered hotly, trying not to raise the volume of her voice. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. But all these hours, trying to teach the child wariness toward life, and the moment his back was turned, this! He was, perhaps, still dazed by the inner revelation—his own interest in Ruth. He would always be her friend, too. They were a dull grey, but the dark frizzed hair that framed her face was attractive. “You remind me of a little blue stone I had once. ‘Grace à dieu, he breathes still. If it is that I am in the least French, and that you do not like it—’ ‘I don’t like it,’ snapped the old man.
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