‘Good, good—and not before time,’ muttered Roding, glancing round again. She reached a tiny yellow-fronted cottage covered with flowering creepers, and entered the front room by the wide-open window. I won’t tolerate any foreign tongue in this house, least of all that confounded French. “It’s all dirt that washes off, dear, but it’s dirt. Hang the wench! Roding was right. Well, what about it?" "I accept.
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