They are things faint and slight in themselves, as physical facts, but they are like the detonator of a bomb: they let loose the explosive. ‘Something wrong, madame?’ Her fan came up swiftly, hiding the lower part of her face. The vast mirrored chamber, with its four little square window bays, two either side of the large raised dais that led to the French doors, was very full of company for the start of the Little Season. ‘What do you say of these troops?’ ‘You see, we’re militia. In one grave, mind.
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