His only warning was a gleam of silver in the faint spill of light from the house above. Even though the individual faces of her audience were not to be singled out, she had been conscious from the first moment of her appearance that something was wrong. Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. ‘This, as you see, is an identity for your cousin, André Valade. The image of Major Alderley came into her mind. I can't bear it.
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