’ ‘Eh bien, what then?’ Emile sidled closer. “Why can’t you tell people that you are what you are? Why all the secrecy?” She looked beyond the farmhouse. “But of course it’s aunt’s doing really. She looked at me as though I were some unclean thing, as though my soul were weighted with every sin in the calendar. “I”—he seemed to have a difficulty with the word—“I love you.
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