She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. A strong arm pulled her closer, and the lips that mouthed her own in tender touches sent her senses reeling. Nevertheless, she was still fighting. She saw how overworked he was. Instead her point disengaged, dropped, and then the sword came up again and banged, flatbladed, onto Gosse’s wrist with such force that his own blade dropped from his grasp.
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