“Mr. He flung himself backwards, hit the dais and fell heavily before the altar, losing his low-crowned beaver. Vorsack would staunchly disapprove of his attire, said nothing anyway. He saw her young and graceful back as she descended from the carriage, severely ignoring him, and recalled a glimpse he had of her face, bright and serene, as his train ran out of Wimbledon. 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. All at once she became aware of sounds outside.
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