She asked no further questions for the moment. Wood hadn't struck me. “You’re. . The child has sprung into a youth; the youth has become a man; the man has already begun to feel the advances of age. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. But he seized the chance to entrap her fingers, fan and all, and look deeply into her eyes. Be silent, I say, if you value his safety.
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