I have been the vicomte’s secretary, remember. He had seldom been more perturbed. Lucy thought of a song that she had not been able to get out of her head since the Fifties. You understand what I mean. 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. There is no need of your friend to kill you, imbecile, because I shall do so this minute.
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