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He was conscious only of her hands in his hands and of her pale- brown eyes and of the bright sun-splotches and the green shadows fluttering all about them. "So you are out of prison," she said, "and demobilized. How wonderful! Why didn't you write? I have been very uneasy about you. How did you find me here?" "Your mother said you were here." "And how do you like it, my Poissac?"
There is nowhere except Paris where one can find out things about music, particularly.... But I am one of those people who was not made to be contented." "Only sheep are contented." "I think I have been happier this month in Paris than ever before in my life. It seems six, so much has happened in it." "Poissac is where I am happiest." "Where is that?"
"Oh, we never go out without Santo, a protection to two lone women, you know," said Mme. Rod, laughing. "Viens, Santo, dis bonjour au Monsieur." "He usually lives at Poissac," said Genevieve. The little dog barked furiously at Andrews, a shrill bark like a child squalling.
"We have a country house there, very old and very tumbledown. They say that Rabelais used to come to the village. But our house is from later, from the time of Henri Quatre. Poissac is not far from Tours. An ugly name, isn't it? But to me it is very beautiful.
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