After what seemed like an eternity he turned right onto a dirt road that ended unceremoniously at a copse of leafless trees. ‘Soi-disant? Then he is not Valade?’ ‘How can I know?’ she countered crossly. “Your father,” he said, “remarked that all’s well that ends well, and that he was disposed to let bygones be bygones. She was afraid people would follow her, she was afraid of the dark, open doorways she passed, and afraid of the blazes of light; she was afraid to be alone, and she knew not what it was she feared. He grunted, and his grip gave.
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