So, bloody but unbeaten, weak and spent but undaunted, he waited for the Wastrel to spring up. The old lady clearly read his state of mind, for the apparently irrepressible dimple peeped out. Like a thorough-bred racer, he would sustain twice as much fatigue as a person of heavier mould. “I think she would,” she decided. After occupying himself thus for the best part of an hour, he thought Jack must have given him the slip.
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