Baptist Kettleby (for so was the Master named) was a "goodly portly man, and a corpulent," whose fair round paunch bespoke the affection he entertained for good liquor and good living. ‘Why have you come in here?’ demanded Melusine, turning on him. The girl who had just left the room was as great a mystery to him now as on the afternoon when he had met her in Piccadilly and taken her to tea. ‘Ain’t enough as my bed is took, my sheets all bloodied, and my gin took for to waste on that fellow’s wound. On the present occasion, in anticipation of Mr. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. The pistol fell to the floor.
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