“It was your own fault,” she exclaimed. “I am not dependent upon any one. A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. “Heaven knows!” said Mr. “Agreed,” he said with queer exaltation, and his grip tightened on her hand.
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