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. And, if ever I'm brought to the gallows, I shall lay my death at her door. “Forgive me, madam,” he said stiffly, “but in such a case as this it is better that nothing in the room should be disturbed until the arrival of the police. Even given that he was hopelessly enamoured of the wench, a fact which was obvious to the meanest intelligence.
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