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‘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. There was no marriage, and I hated, oh, how I hated the man. But it was otherwise with the carpenter. He boasted of her ability to learn to men who were a stone’s throw from having the power of the pope himself. Once she had asked him: "Are you my father?" He had answered: "I am.
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