Seeing the footman about to follow her in, Gerald clamped a hand onto his shoulder. “Anna,” he cried eagerly. If he wants you, let him get you. 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. She throws a sort of spell over us all. But they would not be denied.
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