Rain changed to hail, then 154 sleet, then snow. " "That's the way it goes. 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. And, thrusting a piece of iron into his mouth, he forced him out of the room. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. Left to Capting Roding, as he told me hisself, you’d be in prison this moment.
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