’ He closed the panel and came slowly out of the little dressing-room, Roding at his heels. It was below consciousness, elusive; so he sent out a call to his friend, defensively. The Procession to Tyburn. He was halfway across the ballroom, where the dancing had ceased for the musicians to take a well-earned rest, when Roding pounced on him. ‘It is the life I know. Everett’s gaze dropped to the papers in his hand. I want you to be my lover. If only we are not divided.
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