But there was, it insisted, no mobility in his face, no movement, nothing about him that warmed. ‘I am not French in the least, bête. As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall. Her eyes fell, and then sought his again with timid interest. In the middle of the little town stood the shop of a Jew dealer in old clothes.
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