Threw it out. They sat down in a covered pavilion that housed a grimy picnic table and a dingy fire pit. He and her father shook hands manfully. ‘Étes-vous Francais?’ Her eyes, he noted, followed from himself to Hilary and back again, but she did not speak. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. Their heads touched again, their arms tightened.
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