Your Wish Is My Command
A shortishly tall, famously unknown, 28-year-old man in his early 40's, whose blotchy face complemented the redness of his fair moustache, turned up the astrakhan collar of his cutaway coat and straightened the brim of his wideawake sailor's top hat, before hunching his broad shoulders, adopting the foreign appearance of a native-born Londoner and striding furtively into the mythical fog of future inaccuracy, determined that this night the bluntness of his sharp, butcher's boning bayonet would despatch a canonical and not someone whose eligibility would be subject to endless debate by the mysterious anoraks of the future.
Regards Bridewell.
A shortishly tall, famously unknown, 28-year-old man in his early 40's, whose blotchy face complemented the redness of his fair moustache, turned up the astrakhan collar of his cutaway coat and straightened the brim of his wideawake sailor's top hat, before hunching his broad shoulders, adopting the foreign appearance of a native-born Londoner and striding furtively into the mythical fog of future inaccuracy, determined that this night the bluntness of his sharp, butcher's boning bayonet would despatch a canonical and not someone whose eligibility would be subject to endless debate by the mysterious anoraks of the future.
Regards Bridewell.
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