“Don’t befool me any more,” he answered, almost roughly. 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. "Of yourself," he replied, in a mournful tone. The peculiar appearance of the sky was not without some influence in awakening these terrors. " "Mr. Woman's love of silk is not set by fashion; it is bred in the bone; and somewhere, somehow, a woman will have her bit of silk.
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