They shared a lack of breeding, too, from the sounds of it. But Sharpe did was Faith could not and held his tongue on that account. He'd only just assured her that what she said would not offend him; how cruel to then take offence at a slight he may only have imagined? Sharpe swallowed his pride, deigned to at long last take a seat, and lifted his own teacup with two rough hands.

"I pray there ain't much more we share, love. From your stories..." Well. Sharpe didn't finish the sentence.