Trodger might not need his hair dressed, but the flagon of ale that each soldier quaffed would be welcome—once his captain had departed, thought Roding cynically. He had conveyed it to her, not verbally, but by means of a letter, which seemed to her a singularly ignoble method of prohibition. He was staring at her, openly gaping. I cannot go on. “Perhaps one talks nonsense about a woman’s instinct,” she said.
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