The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. He breathed heavily, as though he had been running. Wood, with a candle in his hand, which Jack instantly blew out, and darted down stairs. He leaned towards her as though anxious to see more of her face than that faint delicate profile gleaming like marble in the uncertain light. I have tried taking a little blood from various donors. Both, however, having safely landed, they cautiously crossed the room, and passed down the first flight of steps in silence. A faint, delightfully humorous smile parted her lips.
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