“Won’t you sit down,” she said, “and tell me what you want to say?” Her voice was flat and faint. She looked at him confusedly, his black hair glinting under the dim lights. ” He writhed. He grunted a little with effort, and she realised the gilt frame must be heavy. She let go of him and stood up, straightening herself. “Um, okay. Come, mon ami, come!’ Ever faithful, Kimble dragged himself into a sitting position, gasping at the pain this caused him. ” He stood before her, his hat in his hand, his head bent, his voice lowered to a convenient pitch. In truth, she would quite like to have him rescue her.
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