But with the skill of a fencer he met the blow and broke it, seizing the wrist. His eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy; he let out a sigh. His face was aquiline but sweet, the years had not yet taken the blush from his cheeks and his lips were similarly rubefacient. Monsieur could rely upon his special attention, and for the cooking—well, he had his customers, who came from their homes to him year after year. Die game.
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