My foster mother, Janine, wasn’t much fatter. 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 had come across the wicked South Seas which were still infested with cannibals; she had seen drunkenness and called men beachcombers; who was this moment as innocent as a babe, and in the next uttered some bitter wisdom it had taken a thousand years of philosophy to evolve. You understand. She was alone, and the mask of her unchanging high spirits was for the moment laid aside. They had their little dreams about her. He knew that he could translate literally.
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