” He crossed himself and grinned. Her family had hosted a feast in his honor for which they had taken weeks to prepare: with braised capons and lobster sausages and all sorts of delicious spiced stews her mother had made from secret recipes. Even your family. “I am tired,” she said, “and I want to rest. There’s sure to be a place somewhere. I will not trust you. Blackness was beginning to consume the cornfield. But don’t think your heroic milice will save you. ‘Jacques?’ she called. As he passed along the main thoroughfare, he heard his own name pronounced, and found that it was a hawker, crying a penny history of his escapes.
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