“Lord!” she said. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. He let go of the girl’s arm. 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. She seemed to be making some sort of inventory. “I got Sydney’s telegram at ten o’clock, and caught the ten-thirty from the Gare du Nord. But for now, I’d like to turn in, if you don’t mind. He talked in the same style, and pretty nearly in the same language; laughed in the same manner, and coughed, or sneezed at the same time.
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