She tolerated spitballs in her curly hair and had to buy a new backpack when hers was stolen. ‘Laisse-moi,’ she threw at him, her brief attack of sobs already ended, although the trace of tears on her cheeks bore witness to its sincerity. "I told you the prison wasn't built that could hold me," cried Jack. “Who can tell?” she said. Not even, it seemed, this interfering monsieur le major. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait.
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