During all this time, he had never quitted the iron bar, and he now grasped it with the firm determination of selling his life dearly, if he met with any opposition. So, bloody but unbeaten, weak and spent but undaunted, he waited for the Wastrel to spring up. He always followed by showering her with kisses, embracing her tightly as she squirmed and giggled. Why not? Imagine I’ve had a fit of hysteria—and that I’ve come round.
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