A dull light shone through the open window blinds and softened the room with parchment yellowness. ‘Étes-vous Francais?’ Her eyes, he noted, followed from himself to Hilary and back again, but she did not speak. The baby crawled towards them, seeking their blood. Strangers look in and long, and neighbours are moved to envy. But she did not know what he knew, that it would always be rolling up, enlivened by suggestion, no matter how trifling. Blueskin goes with me.
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