A few steps brought him to the door of the vault in which his mother was immured. Wood, in equal trepidation. “And yet you still live, Butterfly. ’ Grudgingly, the sergeant shifted aside and allowed her access to the stairs, grumbling to her retreating back, ‘If I’d me way, missie, I’d send you back to France where you ought never to have come away from, if you arst me. ” She replied. The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise.
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