Joe, my foster dad, was a heroin and booze addict. He brought into service all his Oriental bar-room tricks. The rear of the party was brought up by a large, powerfully-built man, with a bluff, honest, but rugged countenance, slashed with many a cut and scar, and stamped with that surly, sturdy, bull-dog-like look, which an Englishman always delights to contemplate, because he conceives it to be characteristic of his countrymen. This is where my character, Lucia, is coming from. She knew, or guessed his mission too, for more than once their eyes met, and she laughed mockingly at him. Light flooded the uncarpeted chamber, revealing the decayed state of the place. Put him in the stocks, and there let him sleep off his drunken fit.
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