She moaned as his lips caressed her neck, almost to where the dress met her shoulder. This morning I met him at the dock, and he wouldn't take the other fifty. 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. ‘And how is it that you have acquired this garb of a religieuse?’ he asked as she fitted the veil over her head. “It was poison—why not?” she answered.
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