She ran towards the arched stone door, her mouth forming an “O” of surprise as she realized that she was in the high turret of an ocean side castle. There was no rush. There he paused again, half turning his back and pretending to look for someone among the soldiers on the benches. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. She looked, Dorothée said, just as she always looks.
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