She shook her head. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. "He is," replied a portly personage, arrayed in a gorgeous yellow brocade dressing-gown, lined with cherry-coloured satin, and having a crimson velvet cap, surmounted by a gold tassel, on his head. "I'll go to her directly," said Wood, bustling towards the door. Do have some tea, won’t you? If you must, go then.
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