India Black In The City Of Light - Plot & Excerpts
I’d have used it to fillet French. I believe the poncy bastard knew it, too, for he was casting about the room for a means of escape. Now I ask you, after scattering a nest of anarchist vipers and nabbing one of Tsar Alexander’s best agents and finally settling down to a glass of champagne with a chap you’ve had your eye on for donkey’s years and that same fellow has finally discovered that indeed you are a woman and a deuced fine one at that, I ask you, is it fair that all this bliss should disappear like so much fairy dust? Damned right, it’s not fair. One moment I was admiring the dark, lithe figure of French and calculating how many glasses of champagne it would take before I could carry the bloke off to bed, and the next I was contemplating a missive from that maddening old trout, the Dowager Marchioness of Tullibardine, informing me that the object of my affection (French, in the event you had forgotten) was well informed about the murky past of yours truly.
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