“What a fool I am!” he muttered, standing up on the hearthrug, and leaning his elbows upon the broad mantelpiece. He dodged the boot this time, and smashed his left upon the Wastrel's lips, leaving them bloody pulp. You are wedged in amongst a crowd, perhaps in the promenade, you lean over the back, you are almost out of sight. All superfine holland. Whenever I feel particularly gregarious, I take the launch and run over to Copeley's and play poker for a couple of days.
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