"Who is it, Bess?" "How should I know?" replied Edgeworth Bess. “Stop this—this humbugging,” he explained. The struggles of the wounded man were desperate—so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood. I'm thinking that the Wastrel was one day a celebrated professional; and the women were partly the cause of his fall.
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