He got up. You are wrong even about that man’s scientific position and his standard of work. The echo of those kindly words seemed still to ring in her ears. 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. “I think,” he said, “I was a little too mystical about beauty the other day. He was almost frightening in silhouette, his hair uncontrollable under the best of circumstances, but that changed when you saw his face. Empty, silly, coarse brutes. The Times slipped from his fingers.
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