And his scarlet coat had nothing to do with it, as Hilary was fond of recounting, for he had been in civilian clothes when they met, as he was tonight. ‘This is not love, Marthe. There were dark rims under her eyes, soft now with unshed tears. You know you don’t mean it. He recognized the handwriting, and turned a shade paler. Perhaps that sealed letter was a form of confession, and thus relieved him on that score.
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