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. “There,” he said, “you don’t treat me fairly, Miss Stanley. There were electric and ice plants, and a great store in which one could buy anything from jewsharps to gas-engines.
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