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. Very quietly, he added, “Oh Lucia, I’m sorry. She did not understand the note of hostility to men that ran through it all, the bitter vindictiveness that lit Miss Miniver’s cheeks and eyes, the sense of some at last insupportable wrong slowly accumulated. She could feel her face turning beet red. And then suddenly—a relief. No need to do such things. Wonderful! The water, dripping from you, must have looked like pearls.
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