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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. Her eyes glistened in the darkness—for light was only admitted through a small grated window—like flames, and, as she fixed them on him, their glances seemed to penetrate his very soul. But it is not your name. ’ ‘Not dead, miss. ” He bent and kissed her hair and paused, and then forced his attention back to the map. But, say we're friends.
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