She thought gleefully of the dress she would get to wear for the Ball (Prom?) and could not wait to tell her foster family about how excited she was. The chain, which had been partially cut through, snapped near the staple. She ran down alleyways and between buildings, faster than an Olympian, until she could hear his voice no more. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. “You are very kind to think of it,” she said, “but—don’t you think perhaps—that I had better not?” He smiled indulgently. At the same moment a martial flourish, proceeding from cow's horns, tin canisters filled with stones, bladders and cat-gut, with other sprightly, instruments, was struck up, and, enlivened by this harmonious accompaniment, the troop reached its destination in the best possible spirits for an encounter. I must go to work again. Maggot. The vault, in which Sir Rowland found himself, resembled in some measure the cabin of a ship.
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