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. In a moment his grasp grew weaker. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. “I like your brother better than any other man I know,” Anna said at last. Spurling bit her lips to conceal her mirth. ‘Forgive my not rising to greet you,’ she said, holding out a claw-like hand.
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