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. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘You have papers of identity, for the Mother Abbess told me so. "Farewell!" cried Jack, breaking from them, and rushing down the street. It was Blueskin.
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