He tasted of whisky and his skin was rough where he hadn’t shaved, but Mirabelle kissed him back.

Covert operations relied on the unguarded slip, the unconscious choosing of one word over another.

The good thing about the aristocracy – German or English – was that they were easily traced, Mirabelle thought.

Mirabelle was always an enigma, and he had the sense that if he pushed her, she’d bolt.

Food in wartime Britain, she had to admit, was hardly inspiring.

Parisians were not easy to engage in conversation. Perhaps that was why the Resistance had been so successful.

She picked up the stout and took a sip. It slid down her throat like silk.

Reticence was clearly a national characteristic, even if the other person spoke French.