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. After all, if one could wait twenty years or more in between bouts of lovemaking, one could certainly wait a few more days. She reflected before answering. “Anna,” he cried eagerly. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town.
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