The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. ’ Grudgingly, the sergeant shifted aside and allowed her access to the stairs, grumbling to her retreating back, ‘If I’d me way, missie, I’d send you back to France where you ought never to have come away from, if you arst me. He had made himself master of the layout of the house, that was plain. The way—the way we are led on! We are taught to believe we are free in the world, to think we are queens. “You are late,” she murmured. She ignored it until it repeated itself.
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