haps, he''s just too much like Andre!" she sighed to herself, "Like that frank, gentle Andre of the past!"

A soft knock on the door startled her. Andre''s weary yet earnest voice, separated by a thin plank, came as if near her ear, "Edith? Can we talk? Just a few words!"

Her lips hesitated, moving ever so slightly.

"I''m tired," she replied in a low voice at last.

There was a moment of silence outside the door, and his footsteps remained frozen in place. She heard the muffled sound of his forehead pressing against the door. After what felt like an eternity, those footsteps gradually moved away, sounding like the glide of a ghost.

Edith did not open the door.

The next morning, when the young girl arose, she noticed that Aunt Adele wore an expression of both anxiety and relief.

"Quenet moved out on his own last night," she explained, avoiding eye contact but speaking in a quite light tone, "I suppose he also feels that he no longer fits in our home."