A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. He’s the handle of life for you. I must go to work again. I was Annabel the rake, ‘Alcide’ of the music halls. "Vill this do?" demanded the constable, taking the candle from the lantern, the better to display the narrow limits of the hole.
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