3. What matters it? My servant, he is wounded—and by a Frenchman, if you wish to make an arrest. “There is something to be said for the lady-like theory after all,” she admitted. She's too pretty and unusual. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. She’s very special. “Idiot!” She raged inwardly while she walked along with that air of self-contained serenity that is proper to a young lady of nearly two-and-twenty under the eye of the world. Quite trying of him not to be there when he is wanted. 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. “If I had three hands,” she said, with a faint smile, “I would give one to each of you.
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