Apparently he did not see his recent companions. Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. Proper enough now, when he could not help himself, but the habit would be formed; and when he was strong again it would become the normal role, hers to give and his to receive. Her momentary instinct was to run to him and be comforted, like the old times.
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