The Girl, the Dog and the Writer in Provence chapter sampler

head forward and planted a kiss on one cheek, then the other. ‘Mwah! Mwah!’ Just as he had with Finnegan. ‘I like your hair,’ he said. ‘It pokes out all over like the bedsprings of an old mattress.’ Freja reached up and pulled at one of her wild and woolly curls. She blushed. She had never spoken to a little child before. Children her own age were scary, but this boy was funny. Like a friendly bear cub, or a playful seal pup. Pippin smiled up at her, his eyelashes fluttering. Freja smiled back and the tightness in her throat slipped away. ‘Do you like my hair?’ asked Pippin. ‘Yes,’ said Freja. ‘It’s very tidy.’ ‘Do you like my name?’ he asked. ‘Pippin is the name of a very famous French king, which almost makes me a king, doesn’t it?’ ‘Of course it does,’ agreed Freja. ‘It is because I am very smart, and Maman and I lived in London for a year,’ Pippin explained. ‘I hated London. It was cold and wet, the food was disgusting and the streets stank like an old sock that has been caught in a drain. Maman hated London too. She worked in a theatre and they didn’t pay her. So we came home to France, very poor and very grumpy but very good at speaking like the fancy people in English ‘Do you like my English?’ he asked. ‘Absolutely,’ said Freja. ‘It’s very good.’ ‘And abundant!’ added Tobias.

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