"Well, I won't dispute your judgment in such matters, Mr. 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. Ennison reeled, and almost fell. And yet—I love you. She watched, puzzled, as her cavalier frowned at the newcomer, glancing from him to Melusine and back again. But I expect him back every minute. In one of the big gates was a little door, and she rapped at this. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. I tell you I’m Meysey Hill, the railway man. “Very funny.
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