What he there noticed occasioned a marked change in his demeanour. ‘It is what my father intended. None at all. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. Then pain entered their depths.
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