Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. His father spoke for him. “These clothes are French, and I’m sure this floppy bow would make a Frenchman of me anyhow. Do not imagine that I cannot do so, as well as I can this Gérard. “You met no one upon the stairs, or saw no one leave the flats?” “No one,” Anna answered firmly. The key is in my trousers.
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