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She noticed that this trunk was not littered with hotel labels. Jackson, I could almost fancy we had met before. A Madame Valade and her husband. Michelle looked like she was about to throw up herself. Young, not much older than she was: she was twenty and he was possibly twenty-four. John Sheppard. She could see over a waist high stone wall into the miniature courtyard, complete with benches only a small child could sit upon, one which had been broken in half, its two pieces left unjoined on the sandy ground. "You will be wanting your broth, Hoddy," she said. Straitened circumstances would not have mattered; a mother would have managed somehow.
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