No prisoner except Edgeworth Bess was placed in the same cell with him. Like carpenter, like chips. She found herself mildly entertained by staring at the houses through the rain as she walked home, all cast in a gray blurry film noir gauze of rain. 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. He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling. .
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