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. He had a handsome, jolly-looking face; stood six feet two in his stockings; and measured more than a cloth-yard shaft across the shoulders—athletic proportions derived from his father the dragoon. Insulting cries became frequent and various, but for the most part she could not understand what was said. Their idea of maidenly innocence was just a blank white—the sort of flat white that doesn’t shine. That’s how things are; that’s the order of the world. ’ ‘Because I was a servant in the vicomte’s house? Things have changed. If he puts any smooth moves on you, Luce, you just tell old Mike here and I'll kick his ass!\" Mike declared, not entirely joking.
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