" At the sound of his voice every vestige of colour fled from Winifred's cheeks, and the work upon which she was engaged fell from her hand. Once or twice she commented upon it, but she knew that it was resultant of his fear of her impending departure. I promised to put him in touch with some people in Rome, an idea which he warmed to. ” “It would be different all the same. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky.
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