" "Oh, that!" she said, with a deprecating gesture. Even her debt to him was a triviality now. We can’t afford to turn our women, our Madonnas, our Saint Catherines, our Mona Lisas, our goddesses and angels and fairy princesses, into a sort of man. 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 rose for fear she might touch him again.
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