Beneath two tall elms, whose boughs completely overshadowed the roof, stood Mr. “Has he accused any one yet?” “Not yet,” he answered. She patted John's head with her palm, its surface appealingly fuzzy. ‘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. Perhaps in two or three weeks.
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