“Mr. 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 kissed her ardently. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. What of Gosse, whom those soldiers had allowed to escape? Hiding—or perhaps gone. He had now reached the adjoining house, and, scaling the roof, approached another building, which seemed to be, at least, one story loftier than its neighbours. They crossed the Park to the westward, and then turned back and walked round the circle about the Royal Botanical Gardens and then southwardly toward Waterloo. The progress of time was marked in Mr.
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