" The Wastrel rushed. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. Sheppard, meekly. Wood, contemptuously. . “Why? Do you think I’m a stoner?” He asked. "Not the sort of stories young ladies should read. Only I wish that it did not remind one so much of a second-hand clothes shop. Here, where every element of her surroundings was tawdry and commonplace, and before this young man of vulgar origin and appearance, it was striking.
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