"Come here," said the petticoated tyrant. "Your enemy!" she returned imperfectly comprehending him. As the Wastrel played, Spurlock knew that the man saw the inevitable end—death by drink; saw the glory of the things he had thrown away, the past, once so full of promise. At this moment, Blueskin came up, and kept off the officers with his knife. It penetrated the skin; benumbed the flesh; paralysed the faculties.
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