Hill sat up on the pavement and mopped the blood from his cheek. ” Anna was bewildered. ‘What, and miss getting myself murdered?’ ‘She said she wouldn’t murder you. Mr. 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. Even Lucy’s bra and panties, the ubiquitous polyester underwire and matching cotton bikini briefs from Kmart, were gone. The smile had become a laugh. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall.
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