The letter will explain all. A young man —almost a boy, slight, dark, and with his brother’s deep grey eyes—came across the room to her. 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 was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. She may address me as “Grandfather” if she chooses, since I’m obliged to accept her in that capacity. “Are you cold?” He asked her, cocking his head to one side like a puppy, so close that the heat of his words warmed her cheek.
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