CHAPTER XXVIII. The house will be well rid of him, for a more idle, good-for-nothing reprobate never crossed its threshold. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. The hangman is always an object of peculiar detestation to the mob, a tremendous hooting hailed his appearance, and both staves and swords were required to preserve order. ‘Beg pardon, miss, but I’m told as how—’ She broke off, her eyes widening, her jaw dropping open. "Thus," replied the prize-fighter. To him she had always appeared as a mere pleasure-loving parasite—something quite insignificant.
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