He was an imaginative young man. You shall lie upon your back; your head shall be covered; and your feet shall be bare. With his black and gray hair, his gray-green eyes were a striking contrast and he looked even younger, as if he had been frozen at age thirty-three. Wet as he was, he felt if he lay down in the grass, he should perish with cold; while, if he sought a night's lodging in any asylum, his dress, stained with blood and covered with dirt, would infallibly cause him to be secured and delivered into the hands of justice. Oaths exploded like shells from a battery in full fire, accompanied by threats of direst vengeance against the individuals who had maltreated them. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. Let me go, Sir.
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