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. Posts were offered to all who chose to accept them. The honey on his tongue turned to ashes. ‘Something wrong, madame?’ Her fan came up swiftly, hiding the lower part of her face. Her sleepless night had left her languid but not stupefied, and for an hour or so the work distracted her altogether from her troubles.
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