His hair was flaxen and his skin had in it just the slightest
tinge of apple-green. Imagine wasting such an exquisite colour upon
the complexion of a robber! He hobbled towards the gate of the
stately old mansion, towards which Snarleyow was also hobbling; and
he called in a feeble voice in which you could catch a note of pain:
'Good sir, I pray you to give me the shelter of your house for the
night. Please, sir, do. Snow is driving out of the east, and the wind
is bitter cold. I cannot live this night if you do not take me in;
for I am ill and lame.'
'Go to blazes about your business. Be off to the poor commissioners;
they'll attend to your case,' replied the old man as he looked
around, bent, and crabbedly thrusting the end of his stick several
times into the ground.
'But I shall die before I reach the poor commissioners,' answered
the invalid in the same soft, sad voice.
'Then die, and be d--d to you for a tramp,' the old man said, poking
his stick once more into the ground and resuming his way. But he was
seized with a violent fit of coughing, and almost tumbled upon his
turned up, cross old nose.
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