He patted the hand on his sleeve. He waited for an instant, wasting an encouraging smile in the imperfect light, and then shut the doors of the van, leaving the women in darkness. But he seized the chance to entrap her fingers, fan and all, and look deeply into her eyes. . . Jove, he didn’t take to it kindly, I can tell you. "And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son.
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