But her great-aunt was nodding, as if this was what she had expected. ‘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. But, if you've a spark of love for me, don't meddle with anything in that house. She forbade him to escape to his workshop in the basement during those times, denying him his one and only hobby. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. They looked out over the city, grim and silent now, for it was long past midnight. ” She paused, and he waited for her to speak.
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