He was a thin old man, a wreck in a ruined body, but nothing would induce him to stand in any other way than as stiffly erect as possible like the soldier he had always been, even though he was obliged to lean on his silver-handled cane to do so. “Tell me his name,” he said, “and I promise that he shall never trouble you. " The Wastrel rushed. Men of action by the scarlet coats with their grey facings—insignia of the county militia. “I was sick of the make-believe.
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