A few seconds sufficed to clear the passage, through which it had previously cost him more than two hours to force his way. 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. Her straight strawberry blonde hair was exactly Cathy’s. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. They will say that it was murder. “Go it, miss!” cried one. “I mean to go to that dance! I meant to reason with you, but you won’t reason. She got up, as she had been told to do, at his appearance, and he amazed her by sitting down, according to custom, on her stool. The rain smelled of the Tyrrhenian Sea, which lay only a few paces beyond the manor's white sea-soaked walls.
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