She looked upon it with pity as she drank his diabetic blood and saw that several of his fingers were missing. She spoke with an entirely false note of cheerful offhandedness. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. “You may talk—if you can talk cheerfully, not unless. "Fire!—murder—thieves!—I've got one of 'em!" "Come along," cried Jack. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end.
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