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"Yes," she replied half audibly. Monsieur le Curé gave a sigh of relief. "God be with you!" said he. He watched her as she wrote in haste the following telegram in pencil upon the back of a crumpled envelope: MONSIEUR TANRADE, Théâtre des Folies Parisiennes, Paris. Tranchard's child very ill. Come at once. A. de Bréville. This she handed to the priest in silence.
For some minutes after the clatter of Tranchard's sabots had died away in the lane, Alice de Bréville and Monsieur le Curé stood in earnest conversation beside the table. "It may save the child's life," pleaded the priest. There was a ring of insistence in his voice, a gleam in his eyes that made the woman beside him tremble. "You do not understand," she exclaimed, her breast heaving.
This stone house of Tranchard's takes up as little room as possible, since its front dare not encroach upon the lane and its back is hunched up apologetically against the angle of the wall.
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