"Back!" he cried fiercely. “It was the night you left Paris. “You come into these sordid surroundings—you mustn’t mind my calling them sordid—and it makes them seem as though they didn’t matter. 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. Well, I don't blame you on that ground. She charged boldly into the space of Miss Miniver’s rhetorical pause. But you must not imagine me wrapped in melancholy.
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