Finally, at the exit into Regent’s Park, they ran against Miss Klegg. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. 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. You might get faint, but you can fight it. And yet, when you offered to help, it was what is to come that I had in mind.
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