Charlie was trying to get into the habit of running a mile or so every day after breakfast along the sand, to get herself used to distance again, used to the stretch and pull of her muscles when she ran. She'd forgotten how good it felt to do something that she was just good at...all her life, Charlie had been good at two things: waitressing and
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"Hush, m'petite, do not touch it," he said, smiling gently and crouching near her ankle, shaking his head slightly, before looking up at her face. "No tears, eh? It is not worth it, it may hurt, but it is just a wound of the flesh, not one of the heart. Correct?" He cocked his head to the side. "That is all there is, ouais?"
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"It really hurts," she said, dumbly.
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"We should get you to a doctor. This is not the sort of place for it."
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"You're right," said Charlie, with a little nod of her head. "This ain't the place at all."
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"Come, let us go. Do you mind if I carry you, madamoiselle? It would not be right to make you go on your own."
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"It's a long way to the compound," she said dumbly.
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"I know, madamoiselle, that is why I am asking. It would do more harm than good to make you walk."
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