The bedding was removed; Mrs. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. "Are you his ghost, then?" "No—no," answered Jack. “Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room. Somewhere in the world would be his people, perhaps his mother; and it might soften the bitterness, of the return to consciousness if he found a woman at his bedside.
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