I sensed she wanted to talk. Her eyes took in the room to see if anything had been moved since her last visit, and she was visibly nervous.I turned to...her and asked, "Would you like to brush my hair for me? We can chat if you want."She leaped off the bed and took my hairbrush.I could see her face in my mirror, and she had the tip of her tongue in the corner of her mouth, a family trait I recognized as concentration. Her hands were steady, and she worked the brush through the tangles with. "A rebel?" Of course. Why else would I bother?" she said impatiently. "Go get her out of there." Yes'm," I said and set out. It made for a very curious weekend.That Friday I nosed around and found that there was, indeed, a competition, open only to militiamen, no British regulars or mercenaries, and that, indeed, the prize was a girl, a maiden as she was advertised, of some sixteen years. Most men in the tavern doubted that, doubted there was a women left in New York over the age of twelve who. More

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