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. “I’m fine,” she said softly. Panting with effort, she held her point menacingly at Gosse’s chest. I haven’t taken much account of it until now. ‘What in the world is that?’ demanded Miss Froxfield.
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