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Updated: May 25, 2025
"He did not leave Paris!" she cried. Mme. de Wimphen did not dare to interrupt the words that followed, jerked-out sentences, measured by dreadful pauses in between. After every break the deep notes of her voice sank lower and lower. There was something awful about the last words. "He has seen me, constantly, and I have not known it. A look, taken by stealth, every day, helps him to live.
Before she was aware, she was humming, in a low voice, the once familiar words: With what unction Uncle Simon used to pour forth that verse. It was to him the grand cure-all, the panacea for every heart-trouble; and over and over again he would sing it, always winding up in his own peculiar fashion with a quick, jerked-out "Hallelujah! Amen."
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