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But the terrible sobs went on, and fearfully he caught her closer, straining her to him convulsively, raining kisses on her shining hair. "Diane, Diane," he whispered imploringly, falling back into the soft French that seemed so much more natural. "Mon amour, ma bien-aimee. Ne pleures pas, je t'en prie. Je t'aime, je t'adore. Tu resteras pres de moi, tout a moi."
Most of it was anonymous. I have kept it all, however, and I quote the following poem, which is rather nice: Passant, te voila sans abri: La flamme a ravage ton gite. Hier plus leger qu'un colibri; Ton esprit aujourd'hui s'agite, S'exhalant en gemissements Sur tout ce que le feu devore. Tu pleures tes beaux diamants?... Non, tes grands yeux les ont encore!
And Brigit, too unstrung to tell the usual conventional lies, simply sobbed on, her whole body shaking with agony. Madame Joyselle sat patiently by her, stroking her shoulders with a kind hand, murmuring little broken phrases in French, patting her hair. "Oui, oui, ma mie Pauvre petite, ça te soulagera Pleures, ma cocotte, pleures!"
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