At the least, the tales had the ability to make her forget where she was; which was something in their favour. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. ‘Dieu du ciel, for what do you take me?’ ‘I don’t know,’ he threw at her. “These are the times that would make me glad to live forever, if only they lasted. ’ With difficulty, Gerald bit back a laugh.
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