Said the Ramper, blowing his sickly breath into my
very ear, "There's a bloke yere as knows suthin' good for Lincoln. Up in
the corner there. Let's sit down." Within a minute I found myself
talking to a queer, battered man, who bent moodily over his glass of
gin and stole furtive glances at me with bleared, sullen eyes. His blood
was charged with bile, and he could not prevent the sudden muscular
twitchings of his hands. His knuckles were swollen, and his fingers were
twisted slightly. Evidently he was diseased to the very bone through
alcoholic excesses. He was dressed in a shiny overcoat, and his bony
shanks threatened to pierce his trousers. When he pushed back his rakish
greasy hat, he showed a remarkably fine forehead--well filled, strong,
square--but he had the weakest and most sensual mouth I ever saw. There
was scarcely a sign of a lower jaw, and the chin retreated sharply from
the lip to the emaciated neck.
My man spoke with a deep voice that contrasted oddly with his air of
debility, and I noticed that he not only had a good accent, but his
words were uttered with a deliberate attempt at formal and polished
elocution.
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