The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. You cannot arrest yourself. Almost worthy of your own fertile imagination. It ran in rivulets down her face, penetrating her hood and the thick quilting of her coat. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. He never finished his sentence.
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