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‘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. It would hurt no one. ‘And you come to me, thinking yourself half French, and expect me to take you in. “How dare you? You are trying to kidnap my babies!” Clotilde demanded. You could walk the city streets and with every blink you could take in a new sight of beauty so great that your heart would weep for it. And mind, your life,—more than your life—hangs upon your choice. The manager tells me that you are an American.
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