It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace. 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. "A sail?" said McClintock. It slid off flimsily. Drink, and no sustaining food. You are not a coward David, and you must not talk like one.
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