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Now, wholly unnerved by the ordeal over the Pyrenees, the tears welled up unbidden. I collapsed on a bench and buried my face in a handkerchief, sobbing hysterically. The commotion that ensued in indescribable. A customs matron came running and a man who said he was "docteur-medicin" and various airport attendants. 

"Madame, Madame, please to compose yourself. What is it?" They were all talking at once. 

"I con't [[can't]] go back," I sobbed. "I'm sick and scared and I just can't go back."

Gallic chivalry prevailed. My command of French is not great but I recognized the words, "Ce n'est pas grand chose," which sounded encouraging. Sure enough, someone telephoned my friend, the concierge at the hotel. He not only assured them I had stayed there but said they were holding reservations for me for that night. Nor was this all. "He is coming in a taxi