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. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. Stanley as they drew alongside, to account for his own ruffled and heated expression. Gravely he placed them in his aunt's hand. He had set out to win her, and she had let him start. He glanced up. ’ He sat looking her over in silence for a moment or two, his thoughts revolving around the name and the way it fitted so exquisitely on quite another set of features. She had become unashamed of her nudity, altogether unfocused on her appearance. Jonathan, however, still lingered. She had just passed into a little antechamber beyond when she suddenly heard a faint knocking.
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