Give me the keys and the light. ‘Jacques?’ she called. What was the objection? She found it impossible to look her own diffidence in the face. Monsieur could rely upon his special attention, and for the cooking—well, he had his customers, who came from their homes to him year after year. A piece of seaweed touched her hand, tender and green. For her it was sufficient to know that somebody wanted her, that never again would she be alone, that always this boy with the dreams would be depending upon her.
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