You are wedged in amongst a crowd, perhaps in the promenade, you lean over the back, you are almost out of sight. At first she thought he was endeavouring to rid himself of the fleas, but after a time she came to understand that the muck had healing qualities and soothed the burning scratches made by his claws. “We will convince him now to the contrary,” Annabel answered. A pig, yes, a little. I hear the sound of his horse's feet in the yard. I keep my finger on the pulse of things. At length, the train approached St. 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.
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