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Blossoming on the young Rhine
2013-09-07 12:32 am (UTC)
Which is, of course, understandable to her. She's used to being overlooked, small and quiet as she is, and just as often underestimated. But she can't overlook him -- and even at first sight, which confirms Switzerland's physical description, her heart goes out to him at once.
(The fact that he still wears the cockade here, in this place, endears him to her more than he will ever know.)
She can leave her work and her tea behind for a moment. He might not think it proper to make her acquaintance alone, her brother's recommendation notwithstanding, so she is happy to take the initiative. So before the young Frenchman can settle in to his reading, she steps forward, hands folded demurely in front of her.
'I do beg your pardon for interrupting -- but might you be M. Enjolras?' For all the physical resemblance she bears to her brother, the sound of her French is not like his. It has something of the same sing-song quality, but the shape of the vowels is purely German, with nothing of the native speaker's fluidity. It is the only note that might strike Enjolras as odd, if he remembers the Swiss soldier who first spoke of his younger sister.
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