“Cheveney!” she repeated. ’ She fairly pushed at Gerald, who grinned and gave in, moving back to the still open 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. . . Spurling, for so was she named, had a warm nut-brown complexion, almost as dark as a Creole; and a moustache on her upper lip, that would have done no discredit to the oldest dragoon in the King's service. " "There are bad stories, then, just as there are bad people?" "Yes. I needed a man the worst kind of way—a man I could keep for at least six months. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes.
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