The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. He was certain that those lips of hers had never known the natural and pardonable simper of youth. Could you come to tea at my rooms one afternoon, or would you dine with me somewhere, and do a theatre? We could have a private room, of course, if you do not wish to be seen about London, and a box at the theatre. The quarry had passed out into the open sea. I wish that it worked.
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