Wood," added she in a hollow voice, and with a ghastly look, "gin may bring ruin; but as long as poverty, vice, and ill-usage exist, it will be drunk. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. I didn’t believe him and I said so. I never see them, they never even call. “Let’s go. You DO understand?” “Who cares for most people?” she said, not looking at him. “Love should be enough, John, but it never is. She did not see the metal pole swing toward the back of her skull, nor did she feel her own blood spoiling her light hair after the dull crack of metal broke her flesh.
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