Sharpe did not evade. He did not dodge. Rather, he stepped into her attack -- turning only slightly so that his left side and arm were relegated to soaking as much of the blow as possible. And although it hurt -- he could feel the shudder and thud right down to his bone; the sudden sting of impact; the searing vibration of every nerve -- it wasn't enough to make him stumble. He suffered the pain with a slight grunt and bare wince.

More importantly, he brought himself beyond her sword's length and as the wood bounced against his left, he lifted his right arm. The edge of a flat palm reached out and touched her shoulder -- right were it joined her neck. A touch -- just a touch. But it made his point.

"It ain't only your own reach you must worry about, Miss Trinket," he said through grit teeth.