She's my mealticket. 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. If we were to wait till a prig was rightfully nabbed, we might tarry till doomsday. Placing chairs, therefore, he invited the ladies to be seated, and, paying a similar attention to Jack, began to help to the various dishes, and otherwise fulfil the duties of a host. “Cheveney!” she repeated.
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