mediately sat up, but before she could finish speaking, she let out a big yawn. Then, she reached into the large bag of sweets and fruits she had been clutching tightly in her arms like a miser holding all of his possessions, and grabbed an orange from it, stuffing it into her mouth haphazardly.

Lucile could only smile resignedly and hand her a written draft.

Edith picked up the quill, impatiently flicking her braids, trying to drive away the sleepiness from her mind.

Occasionally, she caught Quenet''s name in the conversation of a few men from the back row, which instantly made her more awake.

Edith realised that she was always hoping inwardly to hear others mention Andre''s name. Even if it was from a vulgar and obnoxious politician''s comment with no nutritional value, it was enough to make her tense up, prick her ears, and listen attentively.

This was a strange feeling that she was annoyed with and unwilling to admit. Even though the speaker didn''t intentionally emphasise his name, it always seemed to stand out in her ears, like a particularly clear note in a melody or the bright red flame in her little painter''s depiction of Prometheus in oil.

Her cousin Philippe and Andre approached their seats shoulder to shoulder, fervently discussing the progress of the trial. As Edith caught sight of that familiar figure, she immediately assumed a stance like a little female eagle ready to prey.

Andre wore his usual aloof and haughty expression in public, but his bright blue eyes still shone with vitality, showing no signs