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She looked at him, unsmiling, and Sharpe feared he had offended her, but then she smiled. ‘To yourself?’
He nodded. ‘You’ll like it. It’s seven foot by six with walls of damp wood and clammy canvas.’
‘And you swing in your lonely hammock there?’ she asked, still smiling.
‘Hammock be blowed,’ Sharpe said, ‘I’ve a proper hanging cot with a damp mattress.’
She sighed. ‘And not six months ago a man offered me a palace with walls of carved ivory, a garden of fountains, and a pavilion with a bed of gold. He was a prince, and I must say he was very delicate about it.’
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