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. " "A child!" thought Wood; it must be the fugitive Darrell. I've another reason for supposing he'll pay me a visit. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky. He glanced at the ruins of his High Priestess.
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