‘I do not command your services, mon major. ’ The lady’s gaze dwelled thoughtfully on the half-drawn sword and then came up to meet his, an odd look in her eyes. She tolerated spitballs in her curly hair and had to buy a new backpack when hers was stolen. Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. One was in the Indian Civil Service and one in the rapidly developing motor business.
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