His tone was kind and sympathetic. ‘Bête,’ she flung at him. ” At this point she had perceived that she was drifting from her subject. Charcoal, you may bring in the boy. She paced restlessly to the door and back again, biting her tongue on the hot words begging to be uttered. She could still smell the now familiar scent of him on the girl's body in the makeshift grave.
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