“I had those beautiful roses from you on my first night, and a tiny little note but no address. Members of the crowd looked over their shoulders and stared at her through the smoky haze. 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. The summer arrived, speeding the Plague and with it the famine in the streets. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly.
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