On the right, stood a bulky figure, with a broken rattle hanging out of his great-coat pocket, who held up a lantern to his battered countenance to prove to the spectators that both his orbs of vision were darkened: on the left, a meagre constable had divested himself of his shirt, to bind up with greater convenience a gaping cut in the arm. There were no mourners. "I never wear false whiskers," went on O'Higgins. She closed her eyes, discerning the divinations he had been up to during her violin concert.
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