He looked down at her with a wide, dopey grin. “Aw, you worried about me, Isobel? Isobel? Ma belle?” Then he tipped his head back and started to sing a butchered version of that old Beatles song Michelle, Ma Belle, except inserting her name. “Isobel, ma belle—” then he’d sort of start humming along, obviously not knowing the French lyrics before busting out with qui vont très bien ensemble at the end of each line.
