October 1951
Doctor Garret and his wife‚ Priscilla‚ are in Paris. He‚ a northern god‚ of powerful build beneath luxuriant white hair. She‚ small‚ dark and plump‚ and always laughing.
For the past week I’ve been acting as their guide. We’ve thoroughly explored the districts of the old City. As well as the catacombs‚ the quarries‚ the underground tunnels of Belleville‚ the course of the Bièvre. I’m determined that Garret and his wife shouldn’t miss out on anything I can provide them with‚ in terms of stories‚ specific information and‚ to the extent that Paris colludes with me‚ enchantment.
Garret was keen to walk down Rue Zacharie – Witchcraft Steet – at sunset‚ like the blind man in the legend. We rowed on the Seine (in this season!)‚ ate sausages at Bicêtre‚ bought a fake mumified ‘mermaid’ at St-Médard (they’re made in Japan‚ apparently)‚ and La Lune gave us a harmonica recital at the Vieux-Chêne. They’re in seventh heaven.
I’ve never met a Parisian who’s shown more interest in things relating to his City‚ or been more fascinated by them than Garrett. He turns out to be absolutely incapable of articulating a single word of French. Yet he’s at home here: every evening we dine with the Bretons in Rue Grégoire-de- Tours where Garret expresses himself fluently in ‘maho’ with the patronne. It’s always a pleasure to tell him a story because every time he draws an unexpected conclusion from it‚ a surprising ‘essence’.
From London‚ Garret had sent off the complete collection of his works‚ which are of immense interest to me. I don’t know how to repay him. We try to outdo each other in kindness.
‘That’s better‚ isn’t it?’ says Old Georgette‚ the doyenne of La Maube‚ whom we treat every morning at the Trois- Mailletz to a glass of the liquid stuff.
Garret has permanently established his laboratory‚ library and collections in B‚ the pretty Welsh town where his wife continues to run the gynaeological department of the local hospital.
I showed them my votive doll‚ the statuette I’d found down in the cellars of Rue de Bièvre. Garret studied‚ examined‚ stroked‚ fingered it‚ weighed it in his hand‚ admired it for a very long time‚ as though entranced. He said to me‚ ‘This piece is extremely rare if not unique.’
He wanted to explore the underground passageway where I’d found it. I mobilized the old gang. We had to repeat the expedition of ten years earlier‚ and it wasn’t so easy this time round.
Garret is categorical. ‘The evidence this object represents is of the utmost importance to me. It allows me to draw up for the entire hemisphere the “magic” ground plan that your friend Keep-on-Dancin’‚ to his considerable credit‚ had worked out for Paris alone.’
They’ve left. On the station platform – they don’t like flying – I gave them my statuette‚ all carefully wrapped up‚ for them to take care of. They were as happy as sandboys. What nice people!
September 1952
One morning at about ten o’clock‚ at the beginning of last month‚ Garret turned up at my place. This time he’d come via Air France. Haggard‚ red-eyed‚ his face drawn. Looking crushed.
A little marmelade fortified him. I urged him to speak.
‘It’s the doll‚ the wretched doll. Oh‚ how dreadful! I’m no sorcerer myself‚ damn it! What can I do?’ He found it difficult to express himself less incoherently. At last he succeeded‚ and told me the following.
‘Having returned to B‚ I hastened to prepare a glass case in which to install “your doll”. And I conceived a strange desire to restore it to its original appearance‚ that’s to say‚ with brown hair‚ probably quite long‚ implanted with wax.
‘I asked the only hairdresser in our little town‚ if she got the chance‚ to put aside a few locks of dark hair of the requisite length. This‚ I told her‚ was for the purpose of an experiment of no great consequence. I was in no hurry. One day the hairdresser gave my wife a package: it was two long thick tresses of very beautiful chestnut hair. Everybody in B knows each other. We realized this was the hair of little Eve J‚ an eleven-year-old whose mother had decided to have her braids cut off.
‘From time to time‚ in the evenings‚ I applied myself to the task of replacing the hair that had been missing from the statuette for centuries. Very patiently‚ very carefully‚ in my usual way‚ I implanted the hair in little tufts into the twenty- four holes in the skull. For these locks of hair‚ I used not wax but the paraffin for preparing my microscope specimens. The doll looks quite different now. It makes quite an impression. See for yourself.’
And he showed me a photo. There was no denying it.
‘Some time later I tried to determine within the bounds of possibility the antiquity and origin of this extraordinary object. I made several tests on splinters of wood of different types‚ from different periods. And then I decided to remove a few fibres from the magic doll. I made the tiniest nick where it couldn’t affect the outward appearance: between the legs. Oh‚ dear me‚ what have I done?’
‘So? How old is it?’
‘Its age can’t be determined. The piece of oak your statuette was cut out of had been in sea water for so long before it was carved‚ it was treated like stone‚ not wood. Then there were the tannic properties of the waters of the Bièvre. The doll is now a kind of artificial fossil. It’s almost impossible to date it beyond two hundred years. The nails were introduced into already existing holes. But from all this‚ I deduce the doll was carved out of shipwreckage. It doesn’t come from the East‚ as you seemed to believe‚ but from the Far North. And that would be all well and good‚ if …’
‘The very day after I’d removed that splinter – in other words‚ the day before yesterday – little Eve J was brought into hospital‚ where by good luck my wife was on duty.’
‘The little girl with the braids?’
‘Precisely. The child had a fever‚ was somewhat delirious‚ and complained of terrible pains exactly where I’d cut a nick out of the doll …’
‘And?’
‘Right now the child has a terrible inflammation – solely exterior‚ fortunately – of her private parts. Blood tests have revealed nothing. She’s like a starfish consumed with pain‚ and my wife’s trying to treat her without success. We alone know the true cause of her illness: my imprudence. Because of the hair‚ the child became identified with the statuette. We must find a remedy. Fast. The resources of medicine are all powerless. It’s a genuine sorcerer or an extremely effective exorcist we need to consult. The Anglican priest of our town advised me to come straight to you. What can we do now?’
I must declare at this point that I’ve never in my life had recourse to the services of a priest‚ Catholic or otherwise. Don’t pass judgement or stick any kind of label on me: whatever it is‚ it will be wrong.
I shared Dr Garret’s distress so much‚ and tried dispassionately to consider the matter from every possible angle. I don’t know any ‘practising sorcerers’‚ and in any case I’d be wary of them. We needed to find a recognized exorcist and follow his instructions. There was no getting away from that.
Extremely perplexed‚ I headed over to the St Séverin neighbourhood‚ with Garret in tow. A friend of mine has a bookshop there that specializes in the history of religions‚ and of course the occult sciences. I explained the problem. He strenuously advised me to consult one of his clients‚ a clergyman‚ curate of a Parisian parish with a most eventful history.
I was dreading this meeting. I was afraid the priest I was going to see would display a certain sectarianism‚ take umbrage and turn down our request with horror. This was not so.
I greatly regret being unable to give more details of the place where we went and the person who received us. But I was sworn to secrecy. The priest greeted us very courteously. There was a young cleric doing accounts in the sacristy. He was dismissed with a glance. We felt at ease.
I described the ‘case’‚ leaving out nothing. The priest listened attentively‚ without interrupting. When I’d finished‚ his first question astounded me.
‘When you came into this church‚ did you put any money in one of the collection boxes?’
Taken aback rather than embarrassed‚ I replied‚ ‘Goodness‚ no. It didn’t even occur to us.’
Garret was trying desperately to follow what we were saying.
‘Good! Very good!’ said the priest. ‘Now‚ listen to me: even if you come back here in ten or twenty years’ time‚ you must never leave so much as a sou. Nor the doctor.’
‘Ah! but I saw that you had some pamphlets on sale relating the history of the parish. I was intending to buy a copy.’
‘I’ll let you have one strictly for cost price. It’s imperative that I do not make the least financial gain from you‚ or allow you to do me any kind of service‚ even indirectly.’
This was becoming offensive.
‘In your mind‚ we’re such evil people‚ are we? My word‚ you’re placing us under taboo!’
A smile. ‘Not at all. Even devils with horns wouldn’t scare me very much‚ if I happened to come across them. It’s got nothing to do with your selves‚ but with what I may be able to do for you. It has to be – how can I put it? – unilateral.’
I translated for Garret what had just been said. He screwed up his eyes‚ wiped his brow‚ and breathed deeply.
‘Fine. I think we’re on the right track.’
The priest added‚ ‘And remember this: the instructions I shall give according to my conscience might not please the authorities to whom I’m answerable. Promise me never to reveal …’
We promised.
And the curate went on. ‘What you need is an exorcism‚ pure and simple. And it’s necessary to use very powerful means straightaway. For your doll seems to me to be exceptionally “highly charged”. To tell the truth‚ I don’t know whether I’m capable of performing the operation. And we have no time to lose. Ordinarily I’d be obliged to consult the bishop‚ who after endless discussions and symposiums would make unforeseeable decisions… I’m convinced there’s only one solution‚ and it’s one that will surprise you. Here’s an address. That of a priest who’s not of the Catholic faith – in these circumstances that’s actually of no importance – and who has proved to be a first-rate exorcist. Go to him straightaway. And try not to mention my name unless you can’t avoid it. Now‚ remember what you’ve promised‚ and keep me informed as much as possible of how things are going.’
Father Mathias‚ of the Arian denomination‚ at the chapel in Rue du Château-des-Rentiers. Honestly! There we were‚ Garret and I‚ wandering round Porte d’Ivry‚ looking for the chapel that was hard to find.
This neighbourhood looks a bit provincial. There are small gardens in front of the houses. An old buffer‚ sitting astride a chair‚ smokes his pipe outside his front door. Reluctantly‚ I ask for directions.
‘The chapel? Ah! yes‚ the place belonging to the…’ (He doesn’t complete the name – it must be that Garret intimidates him – he merely taps his forehead. He assumes a mischievous look.) ‘Next door‚ at the back of the yard‚ in the direction my pipe stem’s pointing.’
Laughing openly now‚ he watches us go off. What on earth are we letting ourselves in for? A kind of converted greenhouse: it has new tiles and it’s been whitewashed. The only window has been raised to make a gothic-style arch. On the firmly-shut heavy door a discreet plaque: Sunday Service 10.00 am–11.30 am. That’s all. No bell. We knock. No answer.
‘Excuse me‚ ma’am‚ Father Mathias?’
‘Mathias? You mean‚ Monsieur Roger. He must be in the café at this time of day. Go and have a look‚ it’s down there on the right.’
The woman waves at her neighbour with an air of complicity. They both appear to be ready for a laugh.
‘I’m looking for Monsieur Roger … Well‚ Father Mathias …’
‘Wait here‚ he won’t be long.’
I dissuade Garret from ordering lemon tea.
‘In place like this‚ that’ll draw even more attention to us. We’ve attracted quite enough already. Two cognacs‚ please!’
Enter three sporty-looking lads in pullovers‚ laughing and joking‚ and landing each other hearty slaps on the back.
‘Roger‚ these gentlemen have been waiting for you.’
The tallest of the three comes over. No more than thirty‚ well-built‚ down-to-earth sort of chap.
‘What can I do for you?’
I say‚ ‘It’s a professional matter.’
‘Sure‚ sure‚ I’ll be with you right away. Take a seat over there‚ we’ll be more comfortable.’
He directs us to the back room.
Monsieur Roger joins us: a glass of beer is brought to him. I try to pay for the three drinks. He won’t hear of it.
‘No‚ no‚ I don’t yet know what it is you want. I’ll pay for myself. Don’t insist.’
Garret winks at me. He’s reassured.
The priest had listened to me without uttering a word. Monsieur Roger – Father Mathias – constantly breaks in with exclamations of gleeful surprise. Finally he erupts.
‘Well‚ I never! That’s amazing! This is the real thing! My goodness!’
And he punctuates these excited remarks with a gesture – a raised thumb – that doesn’t seem very priest-like at all.
Then he questions me‚ asking for countless details. Garret thinks back‚ replies‚ and I translate. This goes on for a good hour.
‘There’s no time to lose‚’ concludes Monsieur Roger. I haven’t had the chance to ask him anything about himself yet. ‘Go for a walk. Meet back here in two hours.’
He dashed out and hailed a taxi.
That evening Monsieur Roger was dressed up as Father Mathias: black jacket‚ very high-buttoned waistcoat‚ clerical collar. He was almost unrecognizable. Moreover‚ he seemed very preoccupied‚ almost anxious.
‘This is a fascinating case. I don’t know what I would have given to deal with it myself. But I’ve just been to see the master who’s dissuaded me from doing so. Many factors are involved: power‚ forms that have to be observed‚ a training I don’t yet have. And then there’s a question of proximity that comes into play. This is what you must do. Call England and get news of the sick child. And hurry to Cherbourg: you have a train at eleven. Tomorrow morning‚ go to X‚ a little village near the port of Carteret. Ask for Monsieur Bruhat. He’s a defrocked priest. To my knowledge‚ he alone can save you from this predicament. No need to say I sent you: you’ll be well received in any case. As you might expect‚ in such circumstances!’
We offered‚ not to pay Father Mathias for his services‚ but at least to reimburse him for the taxi.
‘No‚ no‚ absolutely not!’
We insisted on paying for his drink.
‘Don’t start by ruining everything.’
Somewhat reassured‚ Garret was thinking ahead. He granted his large frame ten minutes to relax‚ to unwind‚ in anticipation of future expenditure of energy. Father Mathias didn’t seem to be in too great a hurry‚ and I’m eternally grateful for that moment’s respite which I used to conduct a kind of interview.
‘Have you already carried out many exorcisms?’
‘Actually‚ no. Maybe two in the three years I’ve been specializing in this sort of thing. But I’ve treated hundreds of people.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Well may you ask. What I do consists mostly of comforting my clients – female clients mostly‚ in nine out of ten cases – listening to their complaints. They describe themselves as possessed‚ persecuted‚ or jinxed‚ under an evil spell cast over them by someone they know. Of course‚ that’s nonsense‚ but it’s pointless trying to get them to admit it. So I put on an act‚ perform an ineffectual pantomime. In fact not so ineffectual: they’re taken in by it. I send them away if not cured‚ feeling better at least. We can’t keep everyone locked up.’
‘In short‚ you’re dealing with the semi-deranged.’
‘Alas‚ you wouldn’t believe the number of neurotics‚ obsessionists‚ fantasists and hysterics there are.’
‘And the two operations that you performed – what were they?’
‘Listen‚ the word “exorcism” is actually a misnomer‚ used for want of a better term. For in the symptoms those two sick people presented – yes‚ two sick people‚ that’s all – I may have found something out of the ordinary‚ rare‚ peculiar‚ but it wasn’t as if they bore the same signature stamp‚ as it were.’
‘Do you have any points of comparison?’
‘Yes. Otherwise I’d be doing something else. My first subject was a twenty-year-old student. Sickly as a child. Well-off family. Very spoilt. He fails one exam‚ then another. It’s arranged he should have private lessons with the choice of teacher left to him. He commits a terrible crime‚ one that is still attributed to a gang of ruffians “that got away”. Obviously they’re fictitious. He has no misgivings. He starts studying furiously. In no time‚ he’s retaken the exams and passed. He was about to sit his final exam in order to qualify for his degree when we met by chance in Rue de Buci. Within the space of one evening he’d confided in me‚ unburdened himself of his dreadful secret. It was high time! The poor boy was possessed of a murderous instinct so domineering he was about to strangle a child.’
‘Good heavens!’
‘I’m not exaggerating. He’d already assassinated a member of his family in the past. You’re the first person I’ve ever told.’
‘Why take me into your confidence?’
‘I have my reasons. As I was saying‚ the poor sick fellow had been lurking round Square de l’Archevêché every evening for several days. He’d picked out a little boy to whom he’d been offering lollipops: he was just waiting for an opportunity to lure him to a building site. And despite the disconcerting lucidity he displayed as he made his confession‚ he couldn’t help himself. This compulsion‚ this obligation to do evil‚ absurd evil‚ came from somewhere. I’d no trouble discovering the source of it. My “subject” was under the influence of a foreigner‚ supposedly a doctor‚ who was giving him lessons in German and‚ so he claimed‚ “psychology”. This “professor” gave me the impression of being very suspect. Under the pretext of “practising” pychoanalytic experiments‚ he’d taken such control over his student’s mind‚ so dominated him‚ that committing a crime through an intermediary was just a game to him. I succeeded in subduing my potential executioner‚ not as you might think with reasonable words but using methods the practice of which constitutes what I call my “profession”. Then I tried to meet the professor. I was not mistaken. That diabolical creature – and I know what I’m talking about – exuded a will to evil‚ a delight in evil‚ that was evident a mile off. If I could have rendered him incapable of causing harm‚ I assure you‚ I’d have had no scruples.’
‘Even in eliminating him?’
‘Perhaps not‚ for he’s the kind of person who’s even more dangerous dead than alive.’
‘Please explain yourself.’
‘Allow me to do no such thing. In short‚ I had great difficulty in gaining the necessary ascendancy over my sick young man. In the end I went to his parents and impressed on them the need to get him away from Paris. Which is what happened. He’s much better now. But I keep an eye on him from a distance.’
‘And the second case?’
‘That’s less dramatic. An ordinary decent woman‚ wife and mother‚ had for several years been acting as a medium for a group of old bats who used to meet not far from here in a caretaker’s lodge‚ for table-turning sessions from five to seven. You know the type.
‘Her name was Madame Hache‚ and she was a seamstress. Of feeble constitution‚ extremely impressionable. One day outside in the street she witnesses a serious accident: a crash between a car and a lorry. The sight of two bloodied corpses is too much for Madame Hache. She faints and doesn’t regain consciousness. She’s taken to hospital. There‚ in a semi- comatose state‚ in the presence of a flabbergasted intern‚ she starts delivering a seemingly coherent speech but in some foreign language. Yet certain sounds were familiar to the intern. Not surprisingly: it was ancient Greek! What happened next we don’t know. Because from that day on‚ Madame Hache would fall into a trance more or less at the drop of a hat‚ and start raving: once in Latin‚ getting all her declensions right; mostly in Greek; occasionally in dialects about which learned professors from the School of Oriental Languages are not in agreement. For this case has become known‚ and medical experts have taken an interest in it. Especially psychiatrists. They call this phenomenon “xenoglossia”. On several occasions Madame Hache’s utterances have been tape-recorded. After regaining consciousness‚ she’s never been prepared to accept it was her own voice that was played back to her. But these experiences were debilitating‚ and it was her parish priest who asked me to take her in hand. I restored her to a state of health and equilibrium that were as good as lost to her. Don’t ask me what I think – or don’t think – about all this‚ and let’s get back to your doll: tell Doctor Garret that if he telephones home he should give strict instructions that no one‚ absolutely no one‚ is to touch that object.’
I did as he asked.
Garret said‚ ‘What if I told them to burn that piece of wood?’
Father Mathias gave a start.
‘That would inevitably spell the child’s doom. Take my word for it‚ and don’t do anything untoward. Now‚ good luck‚ and do come back to see me.’
‘Thank you!’
‘Just what you shouldn’t say!’
We telephoned from La Bourse. The child’s condition had deteriorated. Very high fever with nightmares the previous night. The inflammation was worse. Mrs Garret begged us to ‘do something’.
It was a dull dawn in Cherbourg. A fine‚ freezing-cold‚ biting rain greeted us. We weren’t prepared for such miserable weather. At once shivering with cold and boiling with impatience‚ we dived into a bar where we waited for the tourist office to open. There was no bus to Carteret until the afternoon‚ and then it was a six-mile walk inland to where Father Bruhat lived. We hired a taxi.
‘You’re looking for Monsieur Bruhat? Look‚ that’s him over there.’
The road climbed a little. Next to a hedge‚ a man was securing two empty barrels onto a cart. His horse looked thin and weary. As soon as he saw us‚ the man remained motionless until we came up to him. He was chewing his cherry-wood pipe. Very clear‚ penetrating eyes. Weathered complexion.
‘Monsieur Bruhat?’
‘That’s me. What can I do for you?’
‘We’ve come from Paris to see you.’
He looked wary and vexed. ‘Ah! you’ve come from Paris at this time of day? What’s it about then?’
‘A matter of… of witchcraft‚ of black magic.’
‘Oh‚ but you mustn’t talk about that here‚ lads. There’s a place for everything. Indeed!’
We walked down the hill without speaking.
A west country man for sure‚ but not from here: he doesn’t have the Cotentin accent.
He stopped in front of a modest-looking house. He patted the old horse and carefully covered its steaming back with two sacks.
‘Come in‚ this way.’
An unmade bed. Above it a plaster crucifix with a faded twig of blessed palm. A few very old books. In the back room an indescribable clutter of all kinds of junk piled up in a corner or hanging from the walls. Bits of wooden beams from burned-out houses. Fragments of fuselage from crashed aeroplanes. A very old ship’s figurehead: a mermaid‚ spit in two. And two miniature ships in bottles.
‘You’ll have a glass of cider‚ won’t you?’
He invited us to sit down and placed an enormous jug of sweet cider on the table and a litre of brandy.
Well‚ he didn’t miss a word of it. His clear gaze‚ direct and unwavering‚ guided my thoughts. When I’d finished‚ he said‚ ‘Good‚ very good. But have you brought some of the hairs with you?’
I couldn’t help looking to left and right to see if someone else was present: his voice had completely changed‚ the peasant accent was gone. It was the priest speaking. I repeated his question to Garret.
He was dismayed. ‘No‚ I haven’t‚ as you well know. I should have thought of it.’
‘It’s not the end of the world‚’ said the priest. ‘I’m going to harness Basil’s horse and take you to Carteret. There are some Canadian tourists sailing for Jersey this evening in their motor launch. From St Helier the doctor will surely find some fast way of reaching the English coast. He must bring me back very quickly a lock of hair belonging to the sick little girl‚ which should be cut off at the very last moment‚ and about half of the doll’s hair. Above all‚ don’t pull out any of the implanted hair. Cut it mid-length. And handle the object with the utmost care. I’ll also need a map of the area round B. You‚’ he said to me‚ ‘go back to Cherbourg‚ from where you can call B to get news of the child and let them know the doctor’s arriving. I’ll try and call you at your hotel this evening.’
Damn the Normandy railways! Wretched stopping trains! It was much more complicated calling from a phone box in Cherbourg than from Paris: I had to call London‚ then Liverpool‚ before finally getting put through to the hospital in B. Fortunately Mrs Garret happened to be there. The little girl’s condition was unchanged. Still running a high temperature‚ the inflammation just as bad. Very weak and debilitated‚ the child was drowsy. Bruhat‚ as promised‚ rang me that evening. I learned that the Canadians had raised no objection to taking Garret in their boat.
Garret was back by midday two days later. That was a considerable achievement: in Jersey‚ he’d gone to the airport where the pilot of a private plane was only too happy to fly him straight to Liverpool. Even the weather‚ which contrary to all forecasts had cleared‚ was in their favour.
Return trip by train Liverpool-London and Paris- Cherbourg. From London to Paris‚ a British Airways flight.
Garret was bearing two precious envelopes: the locks of hair – those of the child‚ those of the doll. Furthermore‚ he had obtained a map of England‚ a 1:10000 scale military map of the part of Wales where B is located‚ and a survey map of the town on which the hospital and his own house were clearly marked.
Father Bruhat examined the documents carefully‚ felt the hair.
I noticed that after having touched the doll’s hair‚ he moistened his fingers with some liquid – water‚ probably – poured from a little bottle‚ before touching the lock of hair taken from the child.
He poured three enormous brandies‚ filling the glasses to the brim.
‘Now go away and leave me‚’ he said to us. ‘I’ll be busy for two days solid. I’m battening down the hatches. Tomorrow and the day after‚ find out how the child’s doing‚ put it in writing for me and drop it through the letter-box in an envelope. Don’t knock. I have my part to play now. Good-bye. Till Thursday evening if all goes well. If not‚ Friday.’
Twenty-four hours later the child was no longer in pain‚ her temperature was back to normal‚ the inflammation decreasing with astonishing speed.
After two days all signs of illness were gone: the child was cured‚ quite amazed to find herself in hospital‚ unaware of the seriousness of the harm she’d escaped.
It was evening. We’d just brought the good news. We were pacing backwards and forwards‚ indifferent to the gaze of mystified neighbours.
At last‚ a clunking sound of the door being unlocked‚ and then it was flung open.
Father Bruhat came towards us. Hunched‚ drawn‚ exhausted‚ in a pitiful state. But his eyes gleamed with contentment.
‘Well‚ now! You’ve certainly put me through the mill‚’ he said in a voice striving to sound cheerful. ‘This problem of yours has aged me a good ten years‚ but I’m indebted to you for the greatest satisfaction of my life.’
Like the Parisian parish priest and Father Mathias‚ he declined with indignation and nervous apprehension our offers of ‘compensation’.
‘What should I do with the doll now?’ asked Garret.
‘Whatever you like. It’s permanently neutralized‚ you can take my word for it. As for the little girl‚ she won’t have any recollection of this distressing experience. She’s also safe from quite a number of illnesses.
‘By the way‚ when you get back home‚ send me a photo of her. I’ll think of her from time to time‚ it will be good for her well-being‚ and give me great pleasure.’