She opened her eyes. ‘I do not know your Gérard. Something seemed to dredge up from the recesses of her memory and she brightened. It was rude and disrespectful to raise her eyes to him, her mother had warned. But Ruth was his woman, and he had sworn to God to defend her. I do not love any one. You go home and live on the G. She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. From his wallet he brought forth a yellow letter.
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