You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. It isn’t because you’re good, but because I may be rotten bad; and there’s something—something living and understanding in you. " Blueskin, meanwhile, having drained and replenished his glass, commenced chaunting a snatch of a ballad:— Once on a time, as I've heard tell. You couldn’t help it. Unless he has killed someone.
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