The porter […] opened his sack, and pitched the corpse into the river, and ran back to receive the rest of his pay “ It is done,” said he, laughing ; “ Your man sleeps with the fishes of the Tigris by this time […]”
Clara's father, a trollish ne'er-do-well who spent most of his time in brothels and saloons, would disappear for days and weeks at a stretch, leaving Clara and her mother to fend for themselves.
Now no more of winters biting, Filth in trench from fall to spring, Summers full of sweat and fighting For the Kesar or the King.
The Lord thy God will set thee on high.
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