And I have no more the pistol. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. ’ ‘Gérard,’ she said, giving the French version with a soft “g” and not quite managing the “l”. Her clock had stopped—stopped at the very hour on which she had quitted the Mint! She had not the heart to wind it up again.
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