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“I won’t go home,” she said; “I won’t!” and she evaded the clutch of the fatherly policeman and tried to thrust herself past him in the direction of that big portal. 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. Here was one of those Americans who would make him breathless before sundown. “How is that carmine working?” he asked, with a forced interest. ’ ‘Je m’en moque.
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