Boys, at the time of which we write, were attired like men of their own day, or certain charity-children of ours; and the stripling in question was dressed in black plush breeches, and a gray drugget waistcoat, with immoderately long pockets, both of which were evidently the cast-off clothes of some one considerably his senior. The oblique ruddy lighting distorted them oddly, made queer bars and patches of shadow upon their clothes. She fell with a plop onto her rear end in the mud and sat dumbly like a statue, water eddying around her. ‘What the devil for?’ ‘Messenger,’ Gerald explained. Stories … love stories: and to-morrow she would know the joy of reading them! It was almost unbelievable; it was too good to be true. His eyes were closed. His cigar burnt out between his fingers, and he threw it impatiently away. ‘I can’t think how I’ve tolerated myself all these years. Somebody ought to talk to him, warn him. She ducked behind a pile of unused drywall. The priceless things were gathered, the belongings packed. He is big and powerful; one of those drinkers who show it but little outwardly.
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