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. Hanging on the wall was a temple censer, bronze, moulded in the shape of a lotus blossom with stem and leaves—deadly as a club. ‘But on the off chance—slim, I grant you —that there is a spy down there, I don’t want to miss the fun. Once or twice she commented upon it, but she knew that it was resultant of his fear of her impending departure. ” “Remember that you are young still, and fond of admiration,” Anna said. .
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