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"There are the women and children and men even poor voyageurs for them to kill first." She gasped, "Is it war?" "Yes, it is war." "I never have seen war. Why did you come here?" "I did not want to, mademoiselle, and I deserted. That is why the Indian was sent after me." "Do not call me mademoiselle. I am Marianson Bruelle, the widow of André Chenier.
It proved as fair a day as the island had ever seen, and when it was nearly spent, Marianson Bruelle still sat on the cave floor holding the dead boy in her arms. Heart-uprooting was a numbness, like rapture. At least he could not leave her. She had his kiss, his love. She had his body, to hide in a grave as secret as a flower's.
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