I swear it. She lingered over donning her winter coat, buttoning each toggle and placket, double knotting her long scarf. ‘Where did you get that, miss?’ ‘It is the sword of monsieur le major. “You little wretch!” she exclaimed weakly. “Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent. She glared at him with satisfaction.
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