My son wanted to marry a woman of thirty in a tobacconist’s shop. “Are you sick, Michelle? Maybe you should have stayed home. "I suppose I was mistaken," returned Gay. He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War.
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