But his treasured dream lay shattered at his feet. Ireton; for may I be hanged myself if I don't believe he'll be as good as his word. It is difficult to express these things. ‘I want a word with you, my lad. Your life is like a funeral March. The Wastrel wiped the blood from his forehead. Left to himself, he took a survey of the room, and his heart leaped as he beheld over the, chimney-piece, a portrait of himself.
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