” “The truth!” There was a brief but intense silence. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. There was—a service. And then at the street corner she came face to face with Nigel Ennison. “I hope you realize,” he went on, in a lower and less assured tone, “that I am in earnest—very much in earnest. Considering how little he lets her have.
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