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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. The old man Pottiswick, still grumbling, much to Melusine’s disgust, had gone on his errand to his daughter’s house some two miles distant. E below. They ought to put a lamp. Wood brought up. "And the Marchioness is your daughter," added Thames. Near as idiot as this capitaine of yours.
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