“Before this there was a sort of restraint—a make-believe. ‘As for you—’ ‘Do not address me. M. To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven. And you need not fear that I shall not give back the sword when I have finished using it. Eh bien, they would see about this. ‘Like you?’ ‘But I am not French. ’ Melusine gasped. I will light the stove, and there shall be some coffee presently. When I gave him an invitation to supper, I little thought he'd accept it. ‘And, if this was not enough,’ went on the lady furiously, ‘you dare to say I am French. Jack is registered in the Black Book. A very familiar face emerged from a crowd at the impromptu bar on the kitchen island. If ever I did meet a man I could love, I should love him”—her voice dropped again—“platonically. He had absorbed her in a single glance, and was now defining her as he worked.
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