She went about the gory business of disposing of the bodies, cutting them up with a large butcher knife and packing the light dry pieces of their bloodless remains in a double ply garbage bag, pieces that looked like overcooked, ruined meat. 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. He was—a millionaire. " "Hoddy," she repeated. "Not that I know of," replied the carpenter, who had in some degree recovered his confidence. “You wouldn’t. " And her faithful attendant, drowned in tears, withdrew, followed by the two assistants.
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