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. He will not help them—and I told Emile so—and thus he sends them to my other grandpére, even that he knows he is dead. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. It takes too many years to climb even a step in the social ladder.
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