This is retribution. There must be ways of getting rid of him. Rhea writhed and scuttled about like a crab. His breakfast despatched, which he ate with a wolfish appetite, he walked over to Newgate, chuckling as he went at the consternation which his appearance would create amongst the turnkeys. He dodged the boot this time, and smashed his left upon the Wastrel's lips, leaving them bloody pulp. “Well!” she declared good-humouredly.
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