Le droit de choisir.
But the right to choose what?
Grace wasn’t used to making choices on her own; wasn’t certain she liked it. How would she know if she’d made the right ones?
Sighing, she flicked a bit of ash off the end of her cigarette.
There was a knock at the door.
Grace started, hurrying to stub out her cigarette in the ashtray.
‘Monsieur Tissot? Monsieur Tissot, is that you?’ She stood up.
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