“I looked for you on the way home from The Big Apple, where were you?” Lucy smiled. 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 sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed.
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