He tugged at the overly large hooded sweatshirt, which she unzipped and let fall to the ground. Boys, at the time of which we write, were attired like men of their own day, or certain charity-children of ours; and the stripling in question was dressed in black plush breeches, and a gray drugget waistcoat, with immoderately long pockets, both of which were evidently the cast-off clothes of some one considerably his senior. Without a word or a gesture, the Wastrel turned and staggered forth, out of the orbit of these two, having been thrust into it for a single purpose already described. She refused to accept her fate, but what is it that she could do about it? Night after night she invented alternatives. Pity you aren’t under my command. There's nothing on the card to indicate it, but I'm a detective.
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