The future Mrs Roding turned bright, laughing eyes on the major. In the middle there was a gate. Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback. He had tossed an honoured name into the mire; he required no prison bars to accentuate this misery. ‘Parbleu, but what a person you make me! One who spies.
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