He glanced at it, and saw the bloodied blade. Cut to pieces —slashed—bloodied. "The ban-dogs!" thundered a tall man, whose stature and former avocations had procured him the nickname of "The long drover of the Borough market. From time to time the man below would shout, and the boy would let the threads go with the snap of a harpist, only to recover them instantly. "I'm my own master now, and I'll do as I please. "I have hurt you because I would not trust you.
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