Mr. But if I were dying of thirst, in a desert, I would not accept a cup of water at her hands. Ah! she looks this way, and puts her finger to her lips. ‘Don’t dare address me by such a title. I'd a good many things to say to you, besides—but you've put them all out of my head. 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.
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