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His last actions were futile. She packed her backpack with a change of clothes, some rags, and her old length of piano wire. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. ‘Jacques! This—this bête he attacks me, and you stand there and you do nothing. But he was a thief, a fugitive from justice. ’ ‘Aye, but she don’t reckon to militiamen. They said no more for a moment, and each was now acutely aware of the other.
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