[When he first opens the journal there is nothing but a creepy silence at first. After a minute of stillness you can hear Gilbert gasp before he starts breathing heavily , almost as if he had troubles with getting air to his lungs. But then he sneers and starts reading out loud in French;]
I rise at eleven, I dine about two
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God bless our good and gracious king
Whose promise none relies on
Who never said A foolish thing
Nor ever did A wise one.
Your husband tight
Rising to shite
This Song did write
This last Midnight.
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