She could accord her father with one grace: he was not in any manner a hypocrite. I’ve just seen him. Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte. 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. They sucked face and felt each other up, or something.
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