Never had he corrected her with hand or whip, the ring in his voice had always been sufficient to cower her. She’s taken my sword. Let me run you for six months. 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. It was dated from the House of Commons on the previous day. She thought of an old abandoned barn that she could inhabit further downriver, but shrugged off the idea in disdain.
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