Ann Veronica’s desire to laugh unrestrainedly was checked by the tremendous earnestness of his expression. Leastways, not on your own. ‘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. To Gerald’s eye, the refugees therefore presented a rather forlorn little group, almost huddling together and chattering in low tones in their own tongue. “Would they make her Queen?” She asked innocently.
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