Gerald caught the look and slipped the weapon into his pocket. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. Not Trodger. She was a trained being—trained by an implacable mother to one end. ‘That way. The tourist season would soon be at ebb, and it would be late in September before the tide returned.
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