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. “Our interest lies in heading them off. That is why you came here, isn’t it?’ ‘Alors, now we know who is the spy, Monsieur Gérard. I shall always be kind to him; I sha'n't bait him. Maybe half a year, counting this summer. Then for a time she sat very still. ‘But I have told you. She tossed her head, and, having no further words, moved toward the door. He touched her hand, soft and cool to his fingers—she turned at once to look at him. Perhaps her granddaughter might marry his grandson.
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