He watched her constantly, trapped her in corners and slept with his arms locking her like a human cage. One night, she drew close to him in bed, trying to warm herself by embracing his back. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. Just this? Parbleu, did he think this was enough? She did not wish to marry him—at least, not just because he was an Englishman. She despises me, I suppose. \"I guess so. The wall of St.
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