‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. ’ ‘Militia, miss,’ Kimble corrected her. Emile’s fist crashed into her temple and stars exploded in her vision. But perhaps if people didn’t like clear, bright, healthy eyes—which is biologically understandable—they couldn’t like precious stones. Not the explosive vigour of the north-born, but that which would quietly meet physical hardships and bear them triumphantly. He kissed her at the door.
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