She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. ‘You are rude, and stupide, and altogether a person with whom I do not wish to speak. She had found a couple of articles about him over the years, blurbs about the opening of a theater that mentioned him. Wood, by whom it was formerly occupied. If the Wastrel had not turned the instant he did, the ball would have missed him; as it was he turned directly into its path. To such characters, fine actions are in themselves sufficient. She could tell it was new territory for him and he might lose the nerve to take them off himself, without the aid of drink. Come. “Well,” he said at last slowly, “I’ll pay it. "I leave this bowl for you," he cried, returning it to the landlord untasted.
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