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Page 178
Chapter Eleven
"Mademoiselle!" René stared at Mariah in disbelief as she entered the kitchen, fully clad in the pink gown she had washed hurriedly the day before. The sun had barely risen. He had not intended to rouse her for a while yet.
Or Mademoiselle Holly eitherthough he had opened the door and peeked into her room when he awakened. To make certain she was still alive, he had told himself. Who knew what difficulties the injuries she had suffered might cause? She had been breathing softly, her gossamer hair, the color of cornsilk, spread across her sheet to frame her pretty face, and he had gently closed the door. He would allow her to awaken in her own good time, he had decided. She would need her sleep.
And if she slept through their guests' departure for the wilderness . . . well, he would not mind that in the least.
Mariah looked as though she had not slept last night, pauvre petite, the circles beneath her eyes as dark as the sootstained three-legged pot in which he was about to cook the breakfast porridge. "Is something the matter?" he asked her.
She shook her head wearily. "No, René. I just . . . "

 
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