‘Monsieur, my wife intended not to anger you,’ he said in a tone of apology. 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. If she’s over, he probably knows all about it. She drew up a chair and sat down, putting her palm on the damp, cold forehead. " "Horror!" cried Jack.
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