His clothes had evidently seen some service, and were plentifully begrimed with the dust of the workshop. It did not matter that he wore the cloth; something was wrong with him. "And so you've given up all hope of escaping, eh, Jack?" remarked Hogarth. He dodged the boot this time, and smashed his left upon the Wastrel's lips, leaving them bloody pulp. The effort to maintain her self-control was almost superhuman. Certainly not a gentlewoman.
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