’ ‘Fiddle,’ scoffed Miss Froxfield. She offers me no explanation, permits me absolutely no hope. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. ‘Soi-disant? Then he is not Valade?’ ‘How can I know?’ she countered crossly. This was his humiliation as well as hers.
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