Degas longed to embrace his sister, to make her forget her wounds and smile. She had been such a troublesome child, all innocent tricks and laughter. She had delighted the people with her bright eyes and merry smile. How long had it been since Degas had seen that smile? Not since Father had been alive. Perhaps she had smiled thusly since, yet he had been away. He had not seen it.
"Yes, darling, of course we can speak elsewhere." He turned to Eodwine, saying, "Friend, is there a place here we can speak freely without our voices carrying easily to others?"
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