Walking to the station with him. "Hoity-toity! You owe me sixteen thousand dollars. “What is going on between you two?” Lucy asked. They had heard nothing, seen nothing. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. Essentially the talk was a mixture of fragments of sentences heard, of passages read, or arguments indicated rather than stated, and all of it was served in a sauce of strange enthusiasm, thin yet intense.
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