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. But at this point he was still subservient, still outwardly humble, in spite of the blackhearted villainy that was even then burgeoning in his breast. He felt he was human wisdom prudentially interpolated. The air was thick with feelings. Set yourself to find it out, if you will—but if you do, never dare to call yourself my friend again. ” “Again,” he said, “I am going to be impertinent. We’ll go.
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