’ She threw a melting look at Roding. 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. Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them. But let the horses be in readiness. ‘But this Englishwoman,’ asked the man Valade, his puzzlement plain to see, ‘who was she?’ The question irritated Charvill. I don’t want to know. His initial nervousness had already abated, and it took some valour to allow himself to become embroiled in Melusine’s crazy schemes.
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