“I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. An ill-lined purse is a poor recompense for the risk I have run. It was John Diedermayer, who had been transformed into a young scholar with a large pair of wire-rimmed eyeglasses on. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. Somewhat alarmed at his appearance, Thames laid his hand upon his sword.
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