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. "No matter. “Even Katy Pfister can’t touch you now. She thought of how much she wanted to eat the foods she had once feasted on that now smelled as innocuous as spring flowers. Bah! She does not know me very well, and you—not at all.
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