The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. I am not French in the least. But that did not stop Trodger, who had ridden up from Kent for the purpose, from detailing every little inspection and sortie that his men had made in their allotted task of watching Remenham House. There stood John and Mr. What of Gosse, whom those soldiers had allowed to escape? Hiding—or perhaps gone.
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