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. Her thoughts were deflected from Vivie Warren by the peculiar behavior of a middle-aged gentleman in Piccadilly. Ann Veronica looked down at her fingers on the claret-colored table-cloth. To-night she had a curious feeling that she stood upon the threshold of some change. ‘I’ll wager that militiaman never rode the animal, then.
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