So, bloody but unbeaten, weak and spent but undaunted, he waited for the Wastrel to spring up. No more did she offer her forehead for the good-night kiss. You don’t know what you’re saying, and I hope you never will. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. He was confounded by the presence in which he found himself. The Wastrel, his eyes full of humorous evil, stood inside the room.
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