Neither their mother nor Sebastian noticed, as certain members of the house had taken to avoiding each other. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. Frequently she would doze in her chair; but the slightest movement on the bed aroused her.
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