‘Monsieur Charvill,’ pursued Valade, ‘has left the chateau, and since we have
heard from him nothing at all, but for the letters to his daughter from Italy. Mike’s a fireman and he’s got kids too. Strongly impregnated with the mingled odours of
tobacco, ale, brandy, and other liquors, the atmosphere was almost stifling. On the right, stood a bulky figure, with a
broken rattle hanging out of his great-coat pocket, who held up a lantern to his
battered countenance to prove to the spectators that both his orbs of vision were
darkened: on the left, a meagre constable had divested himself of his shirt, to
bind up with greater convenience a gaping cut in the arm. You call it a lot of nicknames—“Babs” and
“Bibs” and “Viddles” and “Vee”; you whack at it playfully, and it whacks you
back. Spurling, drily.
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This video was uploaded to parabolanews.com on 05-07-2024 12:08:49