He can't play cards, either, when he's sober. Lucy grabbed the hand cannon, stuffing it with powder, nearly missing a swing of the sword meant for her neck. He conveyed not only his sense of the extreme want of correctitude in their unsanctioned meetings, but also that, so far as he was concerned, this irregularity mattered not at all, that he had flung—and kept on flinging—such considerations to the wind. ‘You keep a-hold of him,’ Trodger ordered his men.
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