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. "As it's getting late, and the porter may be gone to bed," he observed; "I'll take the pass-key, and let myself in. Kneebone. The sidewalk resonated with the pounding of cold rain by the time she left the building.
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