" "I thought as much," sneered Mrs. . ” There was a moment’s silence. I'm a graybeard, an old bachelor; so I am accorded certain privileges. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. "I've been wondering, until this morning, if you were real. It isn’t the same thing. " "True," replied the widow, upon whom all the terrible recollections of the day before crowded, "I know it isn't. In the artificial light her skin had the tint and lustre of a yellow pearl.
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