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. Things happen to women—proper women—and all they have to do is to take them well. Why didn’t I die? Why does God hate me so? Why does He not want me? I didn’t die because I’m weak, because I am cursed! I hate this poisoned world! But most of all. " "Ay, but it is strange how much it resembles somebody for whom it's not intended.
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