Dreams of adorable infants danced through her head as she cradled blankets in her arms. Nigel Ennison was he. ’ He endured the inevitable scold with patience, saluted Mrs Chalkney’s faded cheek, and went off to endure the necessary delay with what patience he could muster. “I don’t see there’s any getting away from the fact that you and I love each other,” he said, slowly. 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. But she must not laugh.
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