They crossed the Channel in sunshine and a breeze that just ruffled the sea to glittering scales of silver. Ann Veronica was lying on her bed in a darkling room staring at the ceiling. ‘And why not?’ ‘Because,’ Gerald said matter of factly, ‘convent-bred jeune demoiselles do not commonly know how to handle either pistols or daggers. Ann Veronica looked down at her fingers on the claret-colored table-cloth. She laughed a little contemptuously.
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