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. Unless he can arise from the bottom of the Thames, where he and his abhorred father lie buried, you will never behold him again in this world. You must not, however, accompany me, Jack. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion.
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