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. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. The knots and broken pale that made the garden-fence scalable, and gave access to the fields behind, were still to be traced. “You silly fool,” he said. Strangers look in and long, and neighbours are moved to envy. After what seemed like an eternity he turned right onto a dirt road that ended unceremoniously at a copse of leafless trees. “Married already,” he said, with his mouth full. He resented being regarded as irregular. "I have it too!" exclaimed Hogarth, busily plying his pencil.
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