"All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less. The baby boy was delivered in a sea of black blood, born dead and blue, and strangled by plague. As he passed along the main thoroughfare, he heard his own name pronounced, and found that it was a hawker, crying a penny history of his escapes. She looked upon it with pity as she drank his diabetic blood and saw that several of his fingers were missing. "Why you wouldn't stand in the way of his good fortune surely? I'll be a second father to him, I tell you. The Wastrel, his eyes full of humorous evil, stood inside the room.
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