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The folds of a thick muslin neckcloth in some degree protected him, but the gash was desperate. “I will tell you as much as this,” she continued. Vee’s all right. 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. She dropped the manuscripts and swiftly brought the coat to him, noting that a button hung loose. They would arrest him for the French spy they had thought her at first.
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