“She told you that?” “Yes. " "My dear," observed Wood, "you should be more charitable—" "Charitable!" repeated his wife, "that's your constant cry. “But perhaps I want to confess them. And I've already told you the accident was not Jack's fault. He never finished his sentence. Go, and let him in. \" Lucy grinned, thinking of the dark gamey odors she had smelled emanating from a few of the less hygienic boys in school. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky.
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