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. ‘In the bookroom, sir,’ answered the man, his eyes round as they took in the furious beauty at the visitor’s side. Last time I left home I felt as hard as nails.
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