‘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. In the upper hall he paused to listen. A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter. Men were going hither and thither with barrows, and ladders and ropes, removing the rubbish, and trying to support the tottering habitations.
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