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. Och! many a mug o' bubb have I drained wi' the landlord, Joe Hind. "Arrest!" "Jigger closed!" shouted a hoarse voice in reply. With a gesture which was without any kind of emotional expression, the manager indicated the silent crumpled figure on the floor and gave the room number. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. The lamp was not yet lit, and in the dim light he bent forward as though trying to look into her averted face.
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