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. "How are you off there, Shoplatch?" inquired Kneebone. Her hair is like, white blonde, but trust me, it’s not her natural color. The temperature soared to one hundred degrees, sickeningly hot. The three young men exchanged expressive glances.
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