He was a Wiltshire Edmondshaw, a very old family. She infused menace into her voice. “Uh, can you get me a soda or something?” She said, shielding her exposed teeth with her hand. 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. She tucked the mission Bible under her arm, and crooking a finger at Rollo, went forth to the west beach where the sou'-west surge piled up muddily, burdened with broken spars, crates, boxes, and weeds.
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