"I owe you nothing," he repeated, dully. His analytical bent saved him many times, though he was not sensitive to this. His hands came up, his face broke apart. 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. Upon this young fellow's face there were no wrinkles, only shadows, in the hollows of the cheeks and under the eyes.
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