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"Are you not a New Orleans boy?" she asked as I lifted my képi and drew rein.

I clenched my teeth. "I am nineteen, madam."

"Mine is Smith," I said, and we galloped.

"Guess I'm the first Yankee y' ever caught, ain't I?" His smile was superior, but congratulatory.

"Tell him all you know."

Her rejoinder came in a low, grieved monotone: "Did you say had hoped?"

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