‘Pardon, milor’,’ said Valade, ‘but Monsieur Charvill, he was not at fault. “I have a message from your sister. The car ride to the new movie theater, a multiplex, was brief and harrowing. She exited solemnly, retrieving and carrying Michelle’s unconscious figure into the forest like a reluctant bridegroom. We middle-aged fools and we old fools can no longer dream. He scratched his upper lip reflectively. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget.
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