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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. ruin you. As she danced there was in her ears the faded echo of wooden tom-toms. Good night. The curve of his shoulders, the very angle of his feet, expressed relief at her apparent obedience. John did not see her until the last period.
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