Day after day—five, to be exact—she had returned to Morgan's; and each time the man would understand what had drawn her, and with a kindly smile would sit down at the piano and play. ‘Oh, the Frenchie. We men are like children. When she awoke, she felt sick, her mouth still salty with blood. Who but you would have dreamed of giving the boy such a name? Why, it's the name of a river, not a Christian.
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