I'm thinking that the Wastrel was one day a celebrated professional; and the women were partly the cause of his fall. Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness. "And, does any of our bright blood flow in the veins of a ruffianly housebreaker?" cried Trenchard, with a look of bewilderment. The novel danger of the situation enthralled him. Without a word or a gesture, the Wastrel turned and staggered forth, out of the orbit of these two, having been thrust into it for a single purpose already described. His breakfast despatched, which he ate with a wolfish appetite, he walked over to Newgate, chuckling as he went at the consternation which his appearance would create amongst the turnkeys.
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