[ Sturdy. The seller's bringing out some guns, and Sharpe's eyes are immediately drawn to a tiny thing. If a pistol carries six shot, this thing can probably fire only one. He snorts, picking it up and looking it over. ]
What's that thing called?
Palm pistol, sir. It's made by Deringer.
[ Strange name that Sharpe doesn't know. He looks down at the lass Cat, his grin wide. ]
You like such a thing, eh, Cat? [ He turns it in his hand and holds it out to her. ]
no subject
What's that thing called?
Palm pistol, sir. It's made by Deringer.
[ Strange name that Sharpe doesn't know. He looks down at the lass Cat, his grin wide. ]
You like such a thing, eh, Cat? [ He turns it in his hand and holds it out to her. ]