With a swirl of her floral chintz petticoats, she placed herself in the capacious window seat, accepted the glass Gerald handed to her, and smiled mischievously up at him. And who knew if the men that Gerald had posted there would follow her to protect her somewhere else? In truth, where were these soldiers? She could not see them, although she assiduously searched the mist-shrouded square from the vantage point of the bay window in the large first floor room which had become her headquarters. ‘I am not French in the least, bête. "The blood that has been spilt is that of his wife. —Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries.
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