‘There is Bernadette, Marie-Thérèse, Marie-Joséphine, Marie-Claire, Henriette—’ Exasperated, Gerald seized her by the shoulders. He hated the taste of it. Her eyes were lit with a gleam of humour. She could neither speak nor move nor cry out. There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers.
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