The Wastrel wiped the blood from his forehead. In the little apartment, under the gas chandelier, his inches and his stoop were certainly very effective. “It’s odd,” said Ann Veronica, re-entering the flat. elizabethbailey. The struggles of the wounded man were desperate—so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood. "How goes it?" he began, heartily.
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