Sheppard looked fixedly at him, as if she would penetrate the gloomy depth of his soul. Oh, Mr Jarvis paid no mind,’ she added hastily, as if expecting disapproval. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. A sense of loss was amongst us. 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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