The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. She hung about his chair, followed him to the door, touched his sleeve timidly, all the while striving to pronounce the words which refused to rise to her tongue. He glanced at his watch. He turned to Ruth and McClintock. I am not a madman, or a pauper, or even an unreasonable person. Teacher. I shall charge you five per cent.
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