He glanced up. ‘Étes-vous Francais?’ Her eyes, he noted, followed from himself to Hilary and back again, but she did not speak. “You certainly are. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. Her eyes filled as she thought of him, the image of his laughing countenance coming into her mind, to be swiftly followed by a vision of the blood running from his cut hand.
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