On taxing his recollection, the whole circumstance rushed to mind with painful distinctness. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. “There’s no delusions, so far as I know,” said Ann Veronica. "Like master like man," observed Jack as he rolled the inanimate body to the side of the road. A single blanket constituted his sole covering at night.
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