The glass in the windows was broken—the roof unthatched—the walls dilapidated. But there is something in your voice that makes me distrust you. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic. It wouldn't do to say that she was from the hospital. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. The dress was her mother's, and she was wearing it to save a little extra money. She had found a couple of articles about him over the years, blurbs about the opening of a theater that mentioned him. ’ ‘Because I was a servant in the vicomte’s house? Things have changed.
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