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. He yelled at the girls for neglected to hand Lucy a pair of shorts or a sweater while they stood around in shock. ‘Gone!’ he said. She noted the dank hair on his forehead, the sweat of revolting nature. “Just hope that the ground doesn’t shift and unearth them.
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