’ He turned to the goggling footman and thrust him towards the coach. ‘What are you, a nincompoop? She was Nicholas’s wife, of course. In this state, he contrived to get the poor black's hand into his mouth, and nearly bit off one of his fingers before the sufferer could be rescued. He was angry. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling.
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