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. Lucy could sense her mental resolution to nip Michelle’s burgeoning obsession with the occult in the bud. She pulled, he rose to his feet. “I did not recognize him,” Anna answered. ‘She’s perfectly right. ‘Parbleu, but what a person you make me! One who spies.
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