The key is in my trousers. On the right, stood a bulky figure, with a broken rattle hanging out of his great-coat pocket, who held up a lantern to his battered countenance to prove to the spectators that both his orbs of vision were darkened: on the left, a meagre constable had divested himself of his shirt, to bind up with greater convenience a gaping cut in the arm. ’ Jack stepped out, and pushed the door to. ‘You said she was beautiful. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end. The word "criticism" had no concrete meaning to her then; no more than "compromise.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTYuNTAuNjAgLSAxNy0wNi0yMDI0IDE4OjA3OjExIC0gNzI4NjI4NTQz
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