Fritz flailed against his mother wildly, crying generous tears. He moved to one side, bowing and gesturing to the door. Eh? Banging against the old rollers—that'll put some life into us both. You know that I am practically destitute, without means or any certain knowledge of where my next meal is coming from. She is called Madame Ibstock, you understand. She grasped at the right one, massaging where his grip had been and Gerald hoped he had not bruised her. Planting his knee against her side, he pulled her towards him with one hand, while with the other he sought his knife.
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