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. ‘Now then, girl. “I shan’t eat him. “Your coffee’s too good to refuse. “Why are you so distant? Why all the mystery? What are you, a narc? Double-oh-seven or something?” She steeled herself, refusing to react. She was wholly unable to conceal her knowledge of his presence.
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