Shoving between them, she confronted the captain herself. ‘Jacques?’ she called out, forgetting the need for silence. I wish”— she found she had embarked on a bad sentence—“I wish we needn’t have quarrelled. They did not care— servant or master, it meant nothing. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. She watched the captain tuck the pistol back in his pocket, and perch on the edge of the big desk.
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