You would want me to be clean, if you gave me a thought, that is. Sheila grabbed the gun and laughed hysterically, brandishing the weapon and baying like a bear. C. 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. Sir John looked about him, and somehow the laugh died away.
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