She turned there and beckoned. He hadn't gambled or played the horses or hit the booze back there in little old New York…. This employment seemed to afford him the highest satisfaction; for a diabolical grin—it cannot be called a smile—played upon his face all the time he was engaged in it. Probably he has something to say and can't say it, or he writes well about nothing. I might have told you the truth. You’ve got me.
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