With astonishment, Gerald saw a rheumy film rimming his old commander’s eyes. ‘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. Usually it was fish sticks and reheated noodles. The sing-song girl rose and meekly pattered out of the office into the night.
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