"Where is he?" he cried. The expression was wholly different. 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. No matter what the fire and force of his passion, it falters eventually, and forever after smoulders or goes out. A slow heavy thumping started up in Melusine’s chest, and she scarcely took in the astonished silence in those present in the room.
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