‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control. There he paused again, half turning his back and pretending to look for someone among the soldiers on the benches. Standing before a mirror set on a dresser between the windows, two hands frozen in the act of adjusting a wide-brimmed hat on her head, stood a lady in a dark riding habit, her startled features turned towards the door. ‘This is not love, Marthe.
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