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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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