The note-passer lagged behind with her. She dare not risk it. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. ‘Your master in?’ he demanded of the astonished footman, removing his cockaded hat and handing it over. ” He replied. ’ Grudgingly, the sergeant shifted aside and allowed her access to the stairs, grumbling to her retreating back, ‘If I’d me way, missie, I’d send you back to France where you ought never to have come away from, if you arst me.
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