Me, I prefer to forget that I have such a father. 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. Shortly a man descended laboriously. “Could you play ‘Fiddler on the Roof’?” father Thomas pleaded. And, fearing you might not come to me, I forced my way hither, even with certainty of discomposing your friends. My nerves are shaken. ‘What is this proof?’ ‘I will not tell you.
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