Were you born here, madame?’ ‘Mais non. She walked back to the car. She was shifting, moving back. She had begun to care about her appearance again, looking into the glass he gave her, a thing nearly priceless that was bordered in intricate golden filigree and rubies. The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity. ‘They’ve gone, miss,’ came the answer, muffled through the panel door. The inn was a military haunt.
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