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It was apparent, and then it faded into the quality of an inevitable necessity. 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. And so gentle as the poor creature is, when she's not in her wild fits—it would melt a heart of stone to see her. Sir John stood upon the threshold.
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