Go to her, I say, and take her in your arms, you poor benighted Ironsides! I can't make you see. Gina, the eleven year old, just couldn’t take it and she ran away. “I am glad,” she told herself, “I came. But she did not speak. As usual, however, on the occasion of any great calamity, a crowd was scouring the streets, whose sole object was plunder. If any of you—or all of you feel the same in six months’ time from to-day, will you come, if you care to, and see me then?” There was a brief silence. 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. All along the wooden benches before it sat a profusion of soldiery, a collection of barbers in attendance, busily employed in replaiting and powdering their hair ready for a military review scheduled for this afternoon.
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