His glance swept up again and found her staring at him with much of her usual defiance, if a touch less of her customary assurance. Supper was quickly served; the oldest bottle of wine was brought from the cellar; the strongest barrel of ale was tapped; but not one of the party could eat or drink—their hearts were too full. Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. ‘Peste,’ she wailed, as Emile dropped to the floor, ducking down.
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