By his side sat a remarkably stout dame, to whom he paid as much attention as it was in his iron nature to pay. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. She thought of how much she wanted to eat the foods she had once feasted on that now smelled as innocuous as spring flowers. He used a most awful word! Then he said, ‘It’s Ann Veronica gone to join her sister!’ ‘Gone!’ I said. And mind he doesn't stir out of your sight, on any pretence whatever, till I call.
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