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Updated: May 20, 2025
"I'm Ellenor Cartier, yes. And you you're Monsieur Le Mierre, from Orvillière." He scowled and looked for a minute as if he meditated another blow then he swore roundly in the Norman-French that he and all the islanders spoke. "How the devil did you know me in this darkness! You're a witch, it seems, and it isn't the first time I've thought it. You are not a beauty, my girl.
Her words wandered away into the night, for the girls, with cries of horror, had fled as if evil spirits pursued them. With a mocking laugh, Ellenor hurried on, then gradually she slackened her pace. At last, she groped her way forward with outstretched hands, for it was horribly dark. Presently she touched the rough stone wall of some building and stopped and listened.
Every night, when his mother had gone to bed in her tiny attic, he knelt long beside the jonquière in the corner of the hearth: and every night he prayed for Ellenor, naming her softly after the beloved word "mother." But this night. Ellenor was first on his lips. Why was she unhappy? Why was she so unkind to the father she loved?
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