Her eyes were soft and blue, arched over by dark brows, and fringed by long silken lashes. 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. And Pottiswick, of course. And yet—I love you. Her cargo is nearly shipped. She went to the table under the end window at which she had been accustomed to work, and found it swept and garnished with full bottles of re-agents. A quarter of an hour passed. ‘Would that your mistress were as trusting.
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