2″It is midday when you hear someone rapping at your door. Who could it be? After all, you weren’t expecting anyone today, but nonetheless, you descend your creaky flat’s stairs and approach the door. You open the door to find a rather attractive postman standing in your doorway, a piece of parchment in his hand. “For Mademoiselle Lavigne?” he says, but when you shake your head, his brow creases as he looks over the address.
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