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. “Why shouldn’t one face the facts of one’s self?” She stood up. She stood without motion and without strength. Then he released her hand, and sat back a little, appearing to concentrate his thoughts on her face. It is not, my dear Veronica, that I think there is any harm in you; there is not.
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