She closed her eyes and felt again an echo of the swamping warmth that had attacked her when his lips met hers. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. As soon as the cavalcade stopped, the sexton advanced, and, ringing a handbell, pronounced the following admonition. Only she was conscious of an unfamiliar and wonderful emotion. While he was stirring his tea, she ran and fetched the comb. He laughed once or twice at himself as he paced backwards and forwards. \"Thanks for lending me the clothes. There was no broken faith—not even any question of anything of the sort.
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