She watched the captain tuck the pistol back in his pocket, and perch on the edge of the big desk. ’ She threw a melting look at Roding. There was an air of repressed gaiety in her actions: the sense of freedom had returned; her heart was empty again. 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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