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. She had eaten little or no tea, and her mid-day meal had been worse than nothing. He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness. She opened the door to him herself. “I go to private school right now. A smile flickered upon her lips as she glanced towards Brendon, who was very serious indeed. “You say you want a vote,” said Mr.
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