He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. ‘All this gadding about. The small grey feathers of her exquisitely shaped fan waved gently backwards and forwards. The door was closed— locked,—and the pair were heard descending the stairs. ’ ‘Oh yes, yes. 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.
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