For a time Ann Veronica went on her way gauging the quality of sordid streets. She crushed the letter in her hand. His anger gave way to grim humour and he thrust towards them, leaning heavily on his cane. ‘And you, my girl, if you’d been born at all, would have been just what you think you are. The Master of the Mint. Which are you—Valade or Charvill? Or, no, let me guess.
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