His eyebrows arched, knotting in the middle. ‘One of they Frenchies, that’s what I say—if it ain’t a ghost. That is all I ask. Besides, I'm afraid her simple honesty will spoil any invented yarn. Then her fingers moved. Winds returned, the gardens withered, and roses would not bloom. I didn’t understand. The passion of pent-up speech compelled action of some sort. Ennison spoke at last.
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