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. “It’s like Troy!” said a voice of rapture. The pole-chair caravan resumed its journey. The curtain tinkled as her head brushed it, but he neither saw nor heard. The thing is, Miss Charvill —’ ‘He told you my name?’ cut in Melusine, surprised.
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