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 could not make up her mind which was the finer, more elemental thing, which gave its values to the other. Almost instantly she had recognized the fallacy of such a statement. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is.
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