Ruth shivered; she was cold. 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. ‘Never. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. ‘Her name is Melusine Charvill,’ Gerald began. But when Ruth's hand fell gently upon his bony head, he knew that no one in this house would ever offer him a kick.
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