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He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. Besides, she had admitted her identity. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. You don’t understand. They’ll know. Sir John was not used to such glances, and he liked them. I give you the plain, unadulterated truth. “Ugh!” she said. But his grief was of short duration. She hit the villain with it. Wood.

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