I am no one, Gérard. To Gerald’s eye, the refugees therefore presented a rather forlorn little group, almost huddling together and chattering in low tones in their own tongue. The young officer sat in front, his hat perfectly straight. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. Once more he was the searcher. She cocked her head.
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