She watched them sleep for what seemed hours from the high window until her body grew colder than the stone sill she perched upon. 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. It was at the top of the building, and looked clear over a clustering mass of inferior buildings toward Regent’s Park. She had better escape if she can. But I'll never part with your irons.
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