‘I think,’ he said pleasantly, ‘that it would be as well if you, Hilary, were to go and fetch the troops. She heard his voice screaming her name into the twilight as she fled, his cries trailing like banners, weaving through the breeze that had begun to gently stir the dew on the ground. They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. ‘Get the swords!’ ‘I’ll see to him.
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