The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. "What in the world is it?" he asked. Expiation. "Do you know what you make me think of?" "What?" "As if you had stepped out of some old family album. "You begin to have doubts, eh? A handful of money between you, and nothing else. ’ ‘Why should I?’ ‘Because I can’t live without you!’ ‘That is your own affair, and—’ Melusine broke off, staring at him, shocked realisation kicking in her gut. His eyes closed. Nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
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