He took her fingers and lifted his eyes to hers. She saw how overworked he was. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. "He will be murdered!—Help!" "My child!—my love!" cried Wood, dragging her forcibly back. “How unkind!” she exclaimed. It must have been impossible to see me through that much rain. She would have to leave very soon.
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