Russ did not respond, but waited patiently as she pulled her hair up and secured it with decoration.“Tell me,” she said more serious. “How did K...eren get his scars?”“Which ones?” Russ feigned innocence.“The ones his back bears.”“He is a man.” Russ sobered and returned to his seat. “What true man does not bear scars?”“None like his,” she said, positioning herself before him.“Oh, and you think yourself and expert on men now?”Russ’ eyes no longer teased, they were serious and focused clearly on. I had spent a year living in la Bourgogne, (which now considers itself partof real France) and was due to meet with Serge, the son of a teacher calledLaurence, who I had made friends with in Beaune. At least that was what Iwas told.Laurence had, quite sensibly, as soon as she had learnt to drive, persuadedher Papa to give her some money, bought a car and fled Paris with nointention of ever returning. It was Laurence who had told me how the restof the French had felt about Paris because she. More

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