She broke a cobblestone over his head and he was out. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. ‘I left a message at home that he should do so as soon as he returned from Kent. The hard work will be his, until we yank this young fellow back from the brink. “We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other.
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