“What have I said about mail coaches, Sophie?” She scowled. “As you packed me off to London mere hours ago, with a promise never to see me again, I’m not terribly interested in what you have to say about my means of travel.” “Ah. Lovers’ quarrel,” explained the woman next to her, sounding rather gleeful. “We’re not lovers,” Sophie snapped. “If he’s chasing after the mail coach to fetch you, you will be,” said the man by the window, lowering his cap over his eyes and leaning back in his seat. Except they wouldn’t. “Little do you know. He doesn’t even like me.” “Get out of the coach, Sophie.”
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