"Mademoiselle, I cannot begin to express my pleasure at meeting you," he said softly. He was not lying. For three - nay, four - years he had waited to meet the fair lady who graced the small café down the street from his house. She came in, all slender features and soft angles, and ordered the same cup of coffee and pastry every day. He could have recited her order by heart, had he wished. Somehow, he never worked up the...
