‘But how do you come here?’ ‘Down on a routine patrol, unluckily for you,’ he answered grimly. “About my sister,” she repeated slowly. He wouldn’t like it if people did it to him. He devoured her with his eyes too, his shyness not able to disguise his furtive glances at the curvy outline of her breast against the imitation silk, his memory still exquisitely tortured by her movements in the miniskirt. James Figg was the most perfect master of self-defence of his day. ‘But this Englishwoman,’ asked the man Valade, his puzzlement plain to see, ‘who was she?’ The question irritated Charvill. You mustn’t go clawing after a man that doesn’t belong to you—that isn’t even interested in you.
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