He let go of the girl’s arm. “Under the Wilde Frau—which was named after you. Here a little delay occurred. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. ‘Gammon. ‘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.
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