‘At me,’ she uttered, holding her own pistol high and aiming it steadily. Stanley professed a great solicitude to warm his hands. ‘That is very sensible, mon capitaine. They may love us, but they love us as the slave loves his captor, not as equals. He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling. The man or woman who did something for nothing always excited his suspicions; they were playing some kind of a game. ‘The place was full of barbers and military men. “Will you say what you have to say, please, and go.
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