He sat down beside her and stroked her hair. “What do you think you are doing?” He asked. He saw her young and graceful back as she descended from the carriage, severely ignoring him, and recalled a glimpse he had of her face, bright and serene, as his train ran out of Wimbledon. She had just managed to reach it, grabbing for the handle, when the enemy’s cracked command halted her. ‘I know her, ma’am, but I know next to nothing of her story. It had not tasted good since 1350.
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