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. This getting up at dawn—real dawn—and working until seven was a distinct novelty. “So, since when does a grown man have to sneak behind the Laundromat to smoke a cigarette?” She asked 115 him. It consisted of a close jerkin of brown frieze, ornamented with a triple row of brass buttons; loose Dutch slops, made very wide in the seat and very tight at the knees; red stockings with black clocks, and a fur cap. He could not promise that she would ever appear again in that house. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery.
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