“Triste,” George floundered. “Très, très triste.” He took her by the hand and led her back into the house. He found a root cellar, made sure it wasn’t burning or about to burn, went upstairs and gathered an armful of blankets, and went back into the cellar and bundled the little girl into a corner. “Restez,” he said. “Stay here.”
“J’ai peur, monsieur.” The little girl, buried in the blankets, fixed him with one brown, regretful eye. “J’ai beaucoup de peur.”
“Aussi,,” George reassured her. “I have fear. I have much of fear. Mais fait rien, fait rien, young buttercup. It’s nothing. Restez.”
“Pourquoi restez? Pourquoi pas reste? Vous ne m’aimez pas.” The little girl was crying with a deeper desolation than before. “I do like you,” George said. “I like you more than anybody in the world. I’
