Her companion was a portly handsome man, also dressed in a full suit of the deepest mourning, with the finest of lace at his bosom and wrists, and a sword in a black sheath by his side. Thwart me, and I become your mortal enemy. If the Wastrel had not turned the instant he did, the ball would have missed him; as it was he turned directly into its path. The manager twisted his moustache. This was enough for the poor widow.
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