In the recess beside the fireplace were some open bookshelves. “Will you be moral and your species, or immoral and yourself? We’ve decided to be immoral. 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. He saw her young and graceful back as she descended from the carriage, severely ignoring him, and recalled a glimpse he had of her face, bright and serene, as his train ran out of Wimbledon.
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