John sat pensively in the back of his best friend's mother's minivan, piloted by his best friend Mark. He was staring at her, openly gaping. “I didn’t know you were half-Gypsy either. His smile faded. “I beg your pardon,” he said, “but you appear to be a fellow countrywoman of mine, and in some distress. ” They entered the place, a pleasant little café of the sort to be met with in the outlying parts of Paris. "But vere'll be the use o' vinnin'? you von't live to pay me. ‘It were that there major, miss. The simile started a laugh in his throat. She was breathing hard, dragging for air, half in fright and half because the sudden effort had used up what little air she had managed to draw so briefly. This is no place for me. Save my seat.
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