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 found a blue stone on the beach once. “It can’t make any difference to you, and there are not half a dozen people in Paris who could tell us apart. All this Woman-who-Diddery —no damn good.
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