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. ’ ‘Never mind the comtesse,’ adjured Prudence. I spent agonizing weeks wandering Mantua in search of you, finally arriving at the idea of asking someone who you were. And I passed myself off as Meysey Hill, and since—then—I haven’t had a minute’s peace.
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