Below was an uninspiring street, a thoroughfare of boarding-houses and apartments. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. ‘How could you possibly know it?’ ‘I know it,’ Lucilla told him frostily, ‘because Dorothée told me that Madame Valade went off with Gerald positively purring in her ear—which is a thing he never does—and came back with him looking like the cat after cream. He smiled inwardly. As usual the substantive sister—Prudence—did all the talking for the pair; Angelina, the shadow, offered only her submitting nods. You will survive, mark my words. Men usually do.
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