"Tom," continued Kneebone, calling to the shop-boy, "don't go home. They’re all wonderful cooks. The stranger looked at him as if strongly disposed to chastise his impertinence. He dodged the boot this time, and smashed his left upon the Wastrel's lips, leaving them bloody pulp. " "Who are you?" ejaculated Trenchard, scarcely able to credit his senses. But that title he would not endure. That handsome, finely drawn face belonged to a soul with clean ideals. “Hey you,” he said affectionately.
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