FOUL RIVER
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Those hands. Every time I look at them I’m reminded of how much I deserve to get exactly what’s coming. To starve. To die. There’s blood on those hands. But not as much blood as there is on the hands of the man who just passed by my empty tin, money in his pocket, without so much as a passing glance. The man who didn’t do anything to me. The man who just killed me.
This is the world seen through the eyes of a beggar in the 18th century.
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