He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. I’ll kill you, Sheila, and I’ll kill her too. Could she understand what she was talking about? Luckily it was a second-class carriage and the ordinary fellowtravellers were not there. ‘Don’t be silly.
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