"I did not ask for an escort, Monsieur," she ground out as he loped beside her. Mon Dieu, he was plucking upon her very last nerve. She whipped around to face him finally, eyes narrowed, "I did not ask for help, either. I can take care of myself. I always have and I always will." Indeed, if he but took a gander at the skirt she wore, he'd see the various patches sewn into the worn fabric. There was a frayed hem along the bottom of the skirt, her shoes were barely wearable, and the blouse had seen better days.

She turned slowly then and walked more, her shoulders back and head held high like a queen. She seemed to elongate, standing taller than her petite frame afforded. She wanted to hide under a rock.