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. "Heaven help us!" he exclaimed; "we were mad to neglect the old sailor's advice. Raymond Plote would only be missed by his mother. There’s hardly a night she doesn’t sneak out of the house. She’s already spoken for. "Open the door, I say, or I'll burst it open. ‘Don’t concern yourself, Hilary.
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