Yet the smoke was curling upwards in a faint innocent-looking cloud to the ceiling. ‘Then it is that you will have pity? Here we have come, we poor, for aid. “But I—I went to Nigel Ennison for help. I wanted the magic of love. Monsieur could rely upon his special attention, and for the cooking—well, he had his customers, who came from their homes to him year after year. ‘When you say it like this, certainly it appears absurd.
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