“Call me Cathy, John. ’ ‘And who, may I ask, is Dorothée?’ asked Gerald. Their chit-chat stopped when they reached the bench. They all left the room. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. It was rude and disrespectful to raise her eyes to him, her mother had warned. The delay was only momentary. Jack Kimble nodded eagerly. What do you think, Annabel?” “I don’t think they would,” she admitted.
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