A young woman with a white badge on her arm stood and counted the sections as they entered their vans. ’ ‘Probably not. A dry cough's the trumpeter of death. She has been a dear. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. ‘Would that your mistress were as trusting. Had she expected to wed Valade herself? Had the fellow broken a vow of betrothal, or abandoned her? He must find out more.
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