He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. “But it makes me feel inhuman,” he added. But the young man with the orange tie remained in his place, disputing whether the body had not something or other which he called its legitimate claims. Empty, silly, coarse brutes. And before Kneebone could draw his sword, he felled him to the ground with the iron bar. The cook tried to ply her with spiced meat and fish soup. Cathy got a second job as a receptionist.
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