“It’s like the Picture and the Bust. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. You can’t possibly understand!” He began a confused explanation, a perplexing contradictory apology for his urgency and wrath. "When a man reaches the lowest scale through drink, we call him a beachcomber. The chapel was again crowded with visitors, and every eye—even that of Jonathan Wild who had come thither to deride him,—was fixed upon him. He walked hastily to the side of the broad pavement and summoned a fiacre. She reminded him of his linnet, when he gave the bird the freedom of the house: it became filled with a wild gaiety which bordered on madness.
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