There was a man, a boy, and a woman. He entered it; crossed the room, in which there was only a small truckle-bed, over which he stumbled; opened another door and gained the stair-head. The action steadied him; and there was a phase of irony, too, that helped. He did not speak for a moment. It's gin—a liquor you used to like. I have done n-nothing. Only her face was clear, frail and delicate, almost flower-like, with the sad haunting eyes ever watching his. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. I hate what I have to do to survive. He can't play cards, either, when he's sober. There was a bare chance that he had been mistaken. Last night Mr.
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