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"You don't recollect me, I presume?" premised the stranger, taking a seat. "It is addressed to my mother," he added, as his eye glanced rapidly over it, "and by my father. You are your nephew's executioner, or he is yours. 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. On the floor was a handkerchief, a little morsel of lace.
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