A vein of conviction mingled with his burlesque. "Hear me, Sir Rowland!" he cried. 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 found no ready reply to that, and he went on: “This music is the food of love. I see them hanging out in the halls together all the time. It is at the lodge that we stay.
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