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. ‘No mistaking you this time. "We may trust him," he added in a whisper; "he is a staunch friend of the good cause. I am five-and-thirty, and I have knocked about in the world and tasted the quality of life. ‘She’s still bleeding. “They have no plans for us. I should like to have had you forgive me.
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