You desire to know who he was, Sir Rowland. On the right, stood a bulky figure, with a broken rattle hanging out of his great-coat pocket, who held up a lantern to his battered countenance to prove to the spectators that both his orbs of vision were darkened: on the left, a meagre constable had divested himself of his shirt, to bind up with greater convenience a gaping cut in the arm. ‘I knowed he were a wrong ’un, but that. Leave me my blanket! I'm very cold at night.
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