" CHAPTER XVIII. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. So long as they're about, I'll always be rewriting them and wasting my time. My work will be all sufficient. To-morrow morning I shall have made up my mind what to do. Stories … love stories: and to-morrow she would know the joy of reading them! It was almost unbelievable; it was too good to be true. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. " "Look here, my boy, that attitude is all damned nonsense. He will not provide for the daughter. Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own.
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