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“I wonder which of us is right,” she said. 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. “Dear old daddy!” she said, and was amazed to find herself shedding tears. Wanting his coat, when he must have known that the pockets were empty! But the effort to talk had cost him something. And most of the others she had met had, she felt, the same steadfastness. I suppose this is what she learns in her infernal London colleges.
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