"Buck up! While there's life there's hope. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. The sword, Jacques. The galleries adjoining it were crowded with spectators,—so was the roof of a large tavern, then the only house standing at the end of the Edgeware Road,—so were the trees,—the walls of Hyde Park,—a neighbouring barn, a shed,—in short, every available position. But pathologically, he is still on the edge. "If I had my old tools with me, we'd soon master this obstacle," he muttered.
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