She never knew what became of her farmer after that. He seemed to be. I don't ask you to supply my place—for that is, perhaps, impossible. Pancras,” she directed, promptly. 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. Next moment, she had shut the bookshelf panel upon him.
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