There was a lock, apparently more than a foot wide, strongly plated, and girded to the door with thick iron hoops. ‘Dolt! Muttonheaded oaf! Why the deuce couldn’t he have sent you home?’ Valade cut in at that. ‘You are too shrewd for me, ma’am. The winter had turned sea and sky to a wet gray. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience.
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