Sheppard. Her little white hand stole across the table. ‘There is Bernadette, Marie-Thérèse, Marie-Joséphine, Marie-Claire, Henriette—’ Exasperated, Gerald seized her by the shoulders. They sat on a wooden bench that overlooked the less aromatic part of the lake, deeper and not as frequented by geese. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. The tide'll bring him to us fast enough.
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