" Some order. " "Are you a real nurse?" "Yes. "Is it indeed you, or am I dreaming?" "You're not dreaming, mother," he answered. ‘They’ve gone, miss,’ came the answer, muffled through the panel door. 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 commissionaire smiled. “There,” he said, “you don’t treat me fairly, Miss Stanley. From a bi-secting street came shouting and music.
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