"Red apples and snow!" she sent back at him, her face suddenly transfixed by some inner glory. 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. But she did not know what he knew, that it would always be rolling up, enlivened by suggestion, no matter how trifling. V. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture.
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